Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On
by through-the-eye-of-a-needle
Summary: 'As the waves rasp against the sand and his lips move tenderly against hers, she thinks that she's never known a moment quite so bittersweet in her life.' A series of oneshots focussing on battles and events of WW1. Sequel to The Curtain Descending.
1. Somme

**.Part One. **

**Somme**

It is summer, again, the third summer of a war that shows no signs of drawing to a close. The sun shines gloriously in a cloudless sky, the wind whispers secrets between the emerald leaves of the trees, and seagulls swoop and shriek above the tented hospital. Kitty Trevelyan stands in the laundry, immersed up to her elbows in soapy suds, rubbing the blood out of bandages, occasionally lifting a hand to push sweat-damp locks of hair from her forehead. Though they have been trusted with more work, now, almost a year after their arrival, the VADs are still expected to do the chores that the regular nurses have no time for – washing bandages, sweeping floors, doing inventories. Sometimes, it is comforting, standing in the laundry or the cool shade of the linen cupboard, but others she just wants to be back in the wards, doing anything she can to help.

Bandages finished, she takes them over to the laundry-woman who is rolling them out and claps her hands together, watching the soapy suds drift down towards the floor, popping out into nothingness. A year ago, she would never have imagined life could have such meaning again, but here she is. An almost fully-fledged nurse.

She gathers up the clean bandages from the roller, and begins to make her way back to the supply cupboard. That's her other regular haunt – Nurse Jesmond and Nurse Burke – the heads of the two wards she's usually assigned to – are constantly sending her to the cupboard for bandages or antiseptic for the endless dressings rounds that take up most of the day.

Not that she minds, really, because it's where she can bump into _him. _Thomas, her…well, there's no word to describe him really. Flora would call him a boyfriend, Rosalie a suitor, but he's neither of those, he's just Thomas. Tom. The one who holds her when she's thinking about her daughter, or talks to her about his new medical techniques when Miles is too busy to listen. The person she loves most in the world, except perhaps Sylvie.

Her daughter will be seven, by now, and Kitty wonders whether her aunt or new step-mother will have made a fuss of her, will have ordered the cook to make a cake, and the housemaids to pile the presents high. She hopes that Sylvie was happy on her birthday.

As she passes Colonel Brett's office, the door opens and Tom emerges, smiling like a child with a new toy. She slows her pace and he falls into step beside her, trying to make it seem to observers as though they are just heading for the same place, so might as well walk together.

"You look happy," Kitty says quietly. "What did Colonel Brett say?"

"I'll tell you later," he replies, glancing around before reaching out to touch her hand briefly. "Meet me – on the beach, after your shift on the wards has finished."

"Alright." She nods, and then he's gone, down the boardwalk leading to the operating theatre, and she opens the door to the supply cupboard, still thinking about the warmth that spread up her arm as their hands brushed.

* * *

"So what's this news?" she asks as they stroll hand-in-hand down the beach later that afternoon. The salt-encrusted breeze teases strands of hair from her headdress and the damp sand crunches under their feet.

"It's not been fully confirmed yet," he says. "But Colonel Brett has been asked to consider some surgeons for promotion."

"You?"

"Yes, me. I'm being moved to a Casualty Clearing Station for the next big push."

"Thomas, that's wonderful," she says, stopping and turning to face him. Of course she's proud, but something about going-away has always scared her

He cups one hand around her face. "I'll miss you very much, you and Miles and Colonel Brett, but no-one else, I don't think."

She manages a laugh. "Flora still thinks you're mean."

"I still think her chatter is more effective than a medieval torture chamber."

She rests her head against his shoulder. "When do you go?"

"A week. They still have to arrange which one I'm going to."

A shiver of something that Kitty can't quite name runs down her spine, and she tugs him close. "Kiss me."

He's more than happy to oblige, and as the waves rasp against the sand and his lips move tenderly against hers, she thinks that she's never known a moment quite so bittersweet in her life.

* * *

The next week, his bags are packed and a truck's engine idly roars in front of the Red Cross in the centre quad. Kitty stands to one side as Colonel Brett and Matron wish Thomas well, and as Miles, words having failed him for once in his life, shakes his friend's hand and slaps his back.

Then, as Matron and Colonel Brett turn away, Thomas comes over to her, taking her hands gently. "Write to me, if you have time," she says, trying to keep the tears from thickening her voice. She will not cry – she's done enough of that late at night, thinking about how close to danger a casualty clearing station is.

"I will," he says, his blue eyes searching hers.

"And stay safe," she takes a slow, trembling breath.

"I promise." His hands tighten on hers. "Just in case there's a shell with my name on it waiting out there…"

"There will be no just in case," she insists.

He ploughs on, regardless. "Kitty Trevelyan, I love you."

The tears begin to drip down her cheeks like raindrops falling from a tree. "I know." She breathes in and out again. "I love you, too, and you will not die."

It's the first time she's ever said those words to anyone but Sylvie.

"I won't," he says, and kisses her chastely on the cheek. Then he's gone, up into the truck bed and its driving away and all she's left with is a fading warmth and a heart full of prayers for his safety.

* * *

_30__th__ June 1916_

_Dear Kitty,_

_How are you? How is life at the hospital without me? I suppose you're putting up more tents to prepare for the convoys that are due any day now, washing endless bandages and suchlike if Matron hasn't suddenly had a change of heart. _

_You wanted to know about the Casualty Clearing Station. Well, officially, we're No. 43 Casualty Clearing Station, but I can't tell you where we're situated, just that we're pretty near the Front, but only the long-range shells can reach us, so it's reasonably safe. It's much smaller than the hospital, only has space for a couple of hundred or so and we're right near a railway siding with the ambulance trains coming and going all the time. They're clearing everyone out now, so there's space for when it all starts tomorrow._

_The operating tent is big, and the rest of the surgeons here are decent men – a couple took it upon themselves to show me the ropes – and luckily this isn't the same one Yelland has been sent to!_

_Write to me soon. _

_Thomas._

* * *

_5__th__ July 1916_

_Dear Thomas,_

_It's been madness here – we had two convoys in the space of five hours a few nights ago – and more arriving ever since – there's just not space for them. For all but the most serious cases or those who can be cleaned up and sent back to the Front, we're patching them up as best we can and putting them straight on a truck back to England. _

_And, finally, now when we're all about to drop, Matron has declared that we three VADs should rest before the next one arrives tonight, so I thought I'd write to you._

_How are you? If it's been bad here, I can imagine that it's hell where you are at the moment, and I want you to know that I'm very proud of you for being promoted, and I love you so much._

_It's strange, now, I always thought women were daft for falling in love with soldiers who wouldn't come back, but now you're out there in the line of fire, I can't help but regret being so disdainful of them. Flora had a letter from her sweetheart – he's still alive – God knows how, it seems as though all the men of England have come through the hospital in the past five days – so that's the beacon of hope keeping her going. Rosalie is managing too, I'm not sure how, as whenever I pass her she looks likely to faint from tiredness, but I've learnt over the past eleven months that she's got a will of iron and she won't give in._

_I miss you. Stay safe. _

_Kitty._

* * *

_1__st__ August 1916_

_Kitty,_

_I'm sorry for not writing up until now, and I'm sorry if I've worried you. I'm fine, I'm safe – I've just been so tired that any time I have outside the operating theatre is spent trying to eat or sleep. But now, things have calmed down much more, and we're having a rest before the next wave comes flooding inevitably in. _

_You're right, it has been hell. For the first few nights of the battle, I had twenty-one hours of back to back operations, and three hours sleep a night until an orderly ducked into my tent to rouse me for another twenty hours or so. The theatre sister, orderlies and the anaesthetist who are part of my team have been wonderful – sometimes we have three or four operations on the go, and I can only be at one table at a time. Once, when the anaesthetist had to be in another room, the priest had to get the patient under whilst I was getting shrapnel out of another man's head._

_All I can do is content myself with the hope that I'm making a difference. _

_Has anything interesting happened? It's good that Nurse Marshall's sweetheart is still alive – she's irritating at best, but losing a loved one is something I'd not wish on anyone. How are Colonel Brett and Matron? I hope that Colonel Brett's other son is still alive, I know he's out here somewhere – the poor man doesn't deserve anything else bad to happen to him._

_This battle will end soon, hopefully, and I'll apply for some leave. It seems as if it's been a lifetime since I've seen you – it's funny how time stretches out like that, when really it's only been just over a month._

_With love._

_Thomas._

* * *

_26__th__ August 1916_

_Dear Thomas, _

_So many things have happened here that I don't quite know where to begin. Well, I suppose, first things first. The influx of wounded has slowed somewhat, and we've finally begun keeping them, which is better since the one thing I hated was loading a roughly bandaged man back onto a truck to Boulogne when he'd been travelling to us for hours already. _

_And then, well, I was in the wards assisting with the dressings round like I do every morning, and there was this one patient…well, his name's Arthur Gillan. When he came round, I was the one doing his bandage – don't worry, it's not a very bad wound, just enough to see him up here for a couple of weeks – and I asked him if he had a brother. And he said yes, that his brother was a Captain in the RAMC. I can't deny that I was surprised, because you've never mentioned any siblings before. _

_It's alright, I haven't told him about us. I don't know how much you tell your family, so I thought I'd leave that to you. _

_The second thing that has happened is that, considering we're so busy, we've had two new VADs – their names are Elizabeth and Gladys – and Miles has gone head over heels for Elizabeth. Don't laugh – it's not his usual flirt with them as much as possible until he gets bored – he's genuinely serious about her. I'm pleased, because Elizabeth is very nice. Quite young, very quiet, though she's eager to learn – she's the one who has been put under me. And she gives Miles a run for his money – doesn't encourage him in the slightest! Remember when he used to flirt with me all the time before we started walking out?_

_Gladys on the other hand is loud, and every evening when I can hear her voice floating away from the next tent, I thank God that Rosalie is the one who has to put up with her and not me. Elizabeth is a martyr to share a tent with her._

_I'm not very tolerant, am I?_

_Well, I think that is all the news from here. Please write as soon as you can._

_Stay safe._

_Kitty. _

* * *

_2__nd__ September 1916_

_Dear Kitty,_

_My brother? Arthur's with you? Thank God he's alright – the idiot doesn't reply to his letters, he's never been organised, and our mother is constantly writing to me to see if I've had word of him. She'll be pleased that he's somewhere safe for a while, even if he is wounded._

_Well, I haven't brought up my family because it's never really come up. You don't like to talk about yours, so I've never talked about mine. There are seven of us – I'm the oldest. Arthur's third. Then I have one more brother, and four sisters. Then my mother – my father passed away just after the youngest, Catriona, was born._

_Another talkative VAD? It was bad enough with Flora – I think you're remarkably tolerant, putting up with her day in, day out. And Miles…that does come as a surprise, I will admit. Do you remember the two weeks or so after we finally got over our differences, and he was acting very subdued? I never got the reason why out of him, but if he's happy, then I'm pleased. As long as this Elizabeth doesn't make it too easy for him – well, you seem convinced that she isn't, so I'll take your word for it._

_We're due more injured any moment now, and the orderly has just come by to tell me to prepare for theatre._

_I'll write to you soon. _

_Thomas._

* * *

November arrives with sleeting rain that soaks beneath the VADs tent and frost that crystallises into patterns on the grass and window-panes of the huts in the centre of the hospital. At night, it is growing colder and colder, and after several pleading letters, Flora's mother sent all three of them knitted woollen blankets from some shop in London to have over their beds. It took a while for them to get past Soper and his list, odious man, but now the coloured wool cheers up their tent with the promise of warmth after a long, gruelling shift.

One afternoon, Kitty is changing dressings in one of the wards with Elizabeth as her helper, and as she wraps bandages around one man's torso, she thinks of how this time last year, she was the one uncomplainingly holding out antiseptic solution, or unrolling the bandages from their packets. Nurse Jesmond has been given another ward, and now Kitty and Elizabeth work under the supervision of a very strict Sister and another nurse who has recently come over from England.

There is a rumble from beneath the patter of the rain, and Kitty fastens the bandage, lets the poor man relax back against the pillows. Two of the more mobile patients are helping the orderly to sweep the floor.

"Looks like another truck has come in," Kitty remarks to Elizabeth. They've had so many injured come through here in the course of this one battle – The Battle of the Somme, as they are now calling it – that the staff are so used to being wrenched from their regular duties to bring in and look after new arrivals.

Their new nurse, Nurse Linshaw, comes over with a clipboard in her hand. "We've got space for another three in here," she says. "I'll finish your dressings round – go and assist them, please."

"Yes, Nurse."

Kitty ducks out into the rain, its chilly drops kissing her cheeks, and heads across the boardwalk and into the quad. Orderlies are assisting dirty, shivering men down from the truck bed, and she takes the arm of one of them who seems as though he can barely stand. "Hello, I'm Nurse Trevelyan. Let's get you to one of the wards, hmm?"

He mutters something that could be a thank you, and, taking most of his weight on her shoulders, she helps him limp towards her ward. The warmth of the paraffin heater hits her like a wave as she comes in from the cold, and the orderly sweeping the floor takes the man's other arm, guides him gently to a bed with clean, welcoming sheets. "I'll just get you cleaned up," Kitty says gently, taking a bowl of water that was waiting on the floor by the bed and beginning to work the ingrained dirt out of his skin and hair, cutting the uniform that seems to be welded to his skin.

Boots and puttees off – a horrific case of trench foot, this one, but she's had to get used to that over the previous winter – and into bed. "Do you need water, or anything to eat?" she asks, but the man is already asleep.

Sighing – there's no point waking him – she picks up the boots. There is a rattling sound, as if something is rolling around inside of them, and when she puts her hand in to investigate she pulls out two toes, blackened and caked with filth.

A lifetime ago, she would have screamed if confronted with something like this. But now, she merely puts them back into the boots and gives them to the orderly who has just finished bringing the last of the men into the ward. "Take these to the furnace, please," she says, turning towards the next man who has blood seeping from behind a hastily applied bandage.

* * *

It is growing dark by the time her shift ends, and she and Elizabeth join the other three in the mess. Flora and Gladys are talking loudly and cheerfully about nothing in particular, and Rosalie sits opposite, staring into space.

"Are you alright?" Kitty asks. Their tentative friendship that blossomed like a flower despite the winter's rage is still going strong, and as the two oldest VADs, sometimes Kitty feels as though they are set apart from the others even though Flora's been here just as long as they have.

"Tired," Rosalie stifles a yawn, and picks up her spoon. "I'll just finish this, then I'll go back to the tent, I think."

Kitty smiles, and begins to eat, but then as a figure – an achingly familiar figure – ducks under the tent flap, she freezes in shock. He makes eye-contact and a small smile, and she can barely breathe, because he's here and he's unhurt by the long-range-shells and…

"Kitty?" Flora asks.

"Sorry," Kitty says. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Only that you know Christmas is approaching, and I think it would be lovely if we were to organise another do, like the one we did last year. Gladys says she'll sing."

"Yes, of course," Kitty manages a forced smile, her gaze flitting over Flora's shoulders to see him sit down next to Miles, who is talking away like nobody's business, his blue, blue eyes fixed on her. "That sounds lovely, Flora."

Rosalie stands up, abruptly. "Yes, that is a nice idea. I'm going back to the tent – Kitty are you coming?"

"Yes," Kitty says, making the tiniest motion of her head towards him. He nods, imperceptibly, and then she and Rosalie are making their way into the chill of the wind and the rain that hasn't let up since this afternoon. Within seconds they are both soaked and the brown mud squelches up over their shoes.

"You think you're so subtle," Rosalie says as they reach a boardwalk, climbing onto the relative safety of the slippery wood.

"Excuse me?"

"You and Captain Gillan. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see it."

An irrational fear stabs its sharp fingers into Kitty's chest. Though not forbidden to marry like the military nurses, romances between the staff are strictly frowned upon – even though Thomas is working elsewhere now, he's still a soldier of the RAMC.

"Are you going to tell anyone?" she asks Rosalie cautiously.

"No." Rosalie turns to her frankly, red hair being pulled out of her cap by the wailing wind as though it is the subject of a child's tantrum. "I'm just warning you to be more discreet. And telling you to thank your lucky stars that Flora hasn't noticed, or you'll never hear the end of it."

"Thank you," Kitty says, and then there is the sound of footsteps along the boardwalk behind them. Rosalie's eyes light up, almost mischievous.

"I'll see you in the tent."

And then she's gone into the night, and Kitty can feel his warmth behind her. She turns. "Why didn't you tell me that you had leave?" she demands accusingly.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he replies, his blue eyes searching her face. She feels tears knot in the base of her throat, and then she's wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into the wet wool of his coat.

"I missed you so much," she chokes, and then his arms are around her and he's holding her close as if the four months they were apart have melted into empty air.

"I missed you, too," he says into her hair.

"How long are you here for?"

"They can only spare me three days, but I'll try and get more at Christmas or New Year."

She pulls away, and then he kisses her, so lightly like the touch of a butterfly. "May I walk you back to your quarters, Nurse Trevelyan?"

She manages a watery smile. "Certainly."

And as they walk away, hand-in-hand, she is struck by a sense that things will be alright. No matter how far they are separated, they will always find their way back to each other like birds flying for their homeland, or ships sailing across the oceans. It will be alright.

* * *

**A/N **Hello, everyone, and welcome to the sequel of The Curtain Descending! I hope you enjoy it, and reviews make the sun come out, so press that little button at the bottom of the page! I'd love to hear from you!


	2. Christmas

**.Part Two.**

**Christmas**

The third Christmas of the war is cheerful, regardless of the howling blizzard that the sky sends down on them three days before the festivities began. In their ward, the Sister in charge has permitted the men to make decorations, and for days trucks and carts have battled through the treacherous conditions to bring comforts from England for all the wounded.

Kitty ducks into the chapel, brushing snow off the shoulders of her coat. "Sorry I'm late," she says to the others who are clustered around the piano. Rosalie sits on the stool, absently playing a complicated sounding piece without even looking at her hands, and Gladys is talking, as usual.

"So, now Kitty's here," Flora interrupts Gladys' monologue, "What are we going to do? We could do a reprise of There's A Long, Long Trail, but I thought it would be nicer if we did something new."

"There's 'If You Were the Only Girl in the World,'" Gladys suggests. "It's from that wonderful revue on the West End that premiered in April."

Kitty looks around at the others. "If you can get the music between now and Christmas Eve," Rosalie says doubtfully.

"Oh, I can. It's in the tent. I mentioned to Mother that we were doing a theatrical, and she sent it over for me. I'll go and get it now."

Before the others can protest, she's ducked out into the raging wind and they're left staring at each other. "Well, I think we're doing that one, then," Flora says.

* * *

The blizzard gives way to a pure, icy calm on the morning of Christmas Eve, and Matron - wrapped up in a coat like everyone else – marches around the wards, keeping the air of festive spirit at a low a key as she can manage, although the Sister in charge of Kitty's ward has allowed them to have a Christmas Tree – found by one of the orderlies – and the holly decorations made by the patients to hang from the tent poles in wreaths of dark leaves with the red berries shining out of them like rubies. She drew the line at mistletoe, however, with a comment about Christmas, whilst being fun, should not be improperly so.

The comforts arrive from the quartermaster's office, borne into the area at the end of the ward where Kitty and Elizabeth spend the best part of two hours sorting them, wrapped up in their coats and gloves, since the nurses' area is well out of the range of the small heater in the ward.

"What happens here at Christmas?" Elizabeth asks as they pile sweets and nuts into boxes.

"Well, there's a service on Christmas morning, for anyone who wants to attend. Flora's do is later. In the evening, all those who aren't on night shift have a little party in the mess tent – some joker usually puts up mistletoe somewhere, and there's a nice dinner once we've served all the men."

"It sounds good," Elizabeth says. "Quite similar to how we used to do things at home."

"How so?" Kitty slants a sideways glance at her. Elizabeth is very closed off about her home life, and remembering her own experiences of not wanting anyone to know her own history, Kitty has not pried. But there is something odd in the way Elizabeth always stands incredibly straight like a poker rod, and the way she sometimes moves her arms when she thinks no-one's looking, as though she's remembering a dance.

Elizabeth keeps adding a small packet of cigarettes to each box. "I was in the corps de ballet, at Covent Garden, before the war."

"You…" Kitty is so stunned that she can hardly form the words. "You were a ballet dancer?"

"Yes."

It makes sense, after a moment of thinking.

Elizabeth continues. "It was turned into a furniture repository, when they realised that the war wouldn't be over by that first Christmas. Most of the girls went into ammunition factories, but I didn't want to do that. I've heard awful stories and well, I thought being a nurse would be better."

"I suppose it is," Kitty says. "It's hard work, but at least you're not in a factory."

"It's actually rather similar. Our ballet mistress was French, and she ruled us just as harshly as Matron Carter rules the nurses here. It was work from dawn until dusk, and then usually we had a show in the evening – either a whole ballet, or supporting the Opera, though it feels strange not be dancing day in, day out now."

"That's incredible," Kitty shakes her head slowly. "All those times in the mess, when you were gazing into empty air and moving your hands…"

"Remembering," Elizabeth nods, simply. "Well, I think this is all of these done. Shall I ask Sister what she needs next?"

* * *

The chapel is absolutely crowded with people wrapped up in as many layers as they can manage, and Kitty has to fight her way through the throng with a barrage of 'excuse me's' to reach where Rosalie and Elizabeth are standing near the front. Elizabeth is watching the proceedings incredibly calmly, but Rosalie fidgets with the edge of the sheet music she has in her hands.

Kitty puts a silent hand on her arm, and Rosalie give her a small smile. "It's just the waiting," she says quietly.

"I know," Kitty replies, looking to where Flora and Gladys are standing on the makeshift stage, discussing something with one of the other nurses. Miles is leaning against one of the tent poles near the back of the tent, talking absently to one of the other surgeons with his eyes fixed on Elizabeth. There is a pale blush blooming in her cheeks like a rose, and Kitty stifles a teasing remark. It really is rather sweet watching them together, as Elizabeth does everything she can to avoid him, but he knows the hospital much better and keeps 'accidentally' bumping into her as she comes and goes from the wards or the pharmacy.

There is the sound of someone clapping, then, and a quiet hush falls over the tent. Even the sound of the guns – slower, now that it's winter – is muffled by the snow lying like a thick, white blanket across the hospital.

"Hello everyone," Gladys announces. "Welcome to the concert."

And Flora, who was so scared last time, smiles widely and says, "And first, we have a poem recitation by Private Peterson."

The young man in question gets up, standing by the piano, and recites this odd little poem with various interjections that seem to make the tent shake with laughter. Then the acts flash by like pictures on a zoetrope that she used to have when she was little. The funniest turn, without a doubt, is a little man – one of the convalescing patients who really should have left for a convalescent home by now but has been told to stay over Christmas – who proceeds to sing Old King Cole in the voices of different ranks in the army. It causes absolute hilarity among the audience, and even Kitty is wiping away tears of unrestrained laughter as he finishes his act with a rendition in the voice of a very posh colonel.

Then, it is their turn, and they are gathered around the piano. In all honesty, there are more of them this year, and Kitty could have got out of singing. But she remembers that first concert, when Thomas has come in, his blue eyes shining in the light of the gas-lamps like sapphires and a part of her hopes that he has leave that he hasn't told her about, and that he'll appear again out of nowhere, ducking into the tent like he did last time as though her singing is a spell that will summon him back to her.

Rosalie begins to play the introduction, and Gladys starts, very gently, "Sometimes, when I feel bad and things look blue…"

* * *

His letter arrives with the Christmas post the next morning whilst Kitty and Elizabeth are handing around the little parcels to all the men in their ward with a smile and a Merry Christmas. She puts it in her apron, and continues handing things out – her hands are itching to tear it open right away, but Sister is standing at the opposite end of the ward with the doctor who is doing his rounds and she daren't risk the her wrath, even if it is Christmas Day.

When the bustle of the ward has calmed down, and most of the staff have gone to the Christmas service – she tells Sister she'll stay and watch the ward – she sits down in the chair at the end, pulling the letter out of its envelope. Several of the mobile patients are ambling about the ward in their dressing gowns, sitting by the more badly wounded and talking away, sometimes bursting into a snatch of a carol, which provokes laughs from the bed-bound.

The letter trembles in her hands.

_22__nd__ December 1916_

_Kitty,_

_I'm sorry, I've drawn the short straw this Christmas. As they gave me leave after the Battle of the Somme, I've got to stay here over the festive season, though they have said they could give me a day or two off at New Year. I hope you're not too disappointed. _

_How are the festivities this year? You wrote about the concert you were putting on again, like last year – did you sing the same song? _

_It's alright here – comforts have arrived from the Red Cross for the wounded, and one of the more enterprising orderlies found some holly to put up at the entrance to a couple of the tents. There are less wounded, and I hear there's some kind of ceasefire just for Christmas Day – nothing like the Truce in 1914 that I heard about when I had just come to France, but at least it's something. There are plans afoot to have a few carols on Christmas Eve, and the priest is organising a small service, but apart from that nothing much will happen, I don't think._

_I've had a card from my mother, and my youngest sister, Catriona has tried to knit me something – I'm not entirely sure what it was supposed to be, as it has turned out as some kind of lump of coloured wool, but it's very bright and cheers up my tent. _

_Merry Christmas, Kitty._

_All my love_

_Thomas._

Kitty blinks back the tears that are pricking at her eyes. It makes sense, that if he had leave in November it will be someone else's turn, but she can't help but wish he were here to enjoy Christmas with her, like last year when he managed to catch her under the mistletoe at the staff dinner.

Her mind drifts to Sylvie, for a second, and she wonders if her daughter will have received her dragon for Christmas like she so dearly wanted two years ago, or whether she's moved on from stories of dragons, princesses and knights in shining armour. The thought does nothing to help the knot of sadness in her throat. Her daughter might have changed beyond recognition, by now, grown up without Kitty being there to see it.

It's at moments like this where she most misses Thomas' arms around her, his fierce conviction that she will see her daughter again.

"Nurse, are you alright?" One of the carol singers has hobbled over to her – it's one of the men with trench foot and a bullet to the arm that _luckily _they managed to get before it began to fester.

Kitty blinks again, looking up at him. "Yes, I'm fine thank you."

"Thinking about your family? I miss mine too, especially at Christmas. Wish I'd had enough of a Blighty to get me home to see them, but well, life's life." He sits down on the end of an empty bed near her.

"Yes, I do miss my family," she says quietly. "But I have letters, and that will do."

He nods. "Just didn't want the prettiest nurse on the ward to look sad on Christmas Day."

That makes her laugh. "Thank you. Go and sing some more carols – they'll cheer me up."

He gives her a look, and limps off, leaning on his crutch. "Nurse wants us to sing some more carols!" he announces to the ward at large. "What's your favourite one?"

"Do 'O Little Town of Bethlehem,'" Kitty says.

There is a second's pause, and then almost all of the men who are strong enough begin to sing the first verse – several completely out of tune – and even those who are too weak to sit up mouth the words.

Kitty swears she's never heard anything more beautiful in her whole life.

* * *

_25__th__ December 1916_

_Dear Tom,_

_I'm writing this to you very late, when I should be asleep, but I have to write it all down before I forget. Merry Christmas to you too. I'm pleased that your Casualty Clearing Station is doing something to mark the occasion and that you've heard from your family._

_For the 'do' yesterday, we sang the song that Gladys says is very popular in London at the moment – 'If You Were the Only Girl in the World.' There were some very funny acts; I look forward to sharing them with you when I next see you._

_I have managed to have a good day, though it would have been much better had you been here with me. Elizabeth and I gave out the little presents from 'Father Christmas' this morning, and then when everyone went to the service, I elected to stay and watch the ward. At this point, all of the men decided it would be a wonderful idea to serenade me – I was thinking about Sylvie, so I suppose I looked sad - but Tom, it was a lovely, and so incredible to think that a few weeks ago, all these men were lying wounded in the mud and it's because of people like us that they're still able to laugh and sing. _

_This evening, we had the staff dinner, and yes, someone had put up mistletoe everywhere. Luckily, I managed to evade anyone with the intention of kissing me, though Rosalie was caught by one of the surgeons, and Miles managed to corner Elizabeth, who didn't look upset in the slightest. Even Matron got a kiss (on the cheek, I might add) from Colonel Brett, which provoked cheers from several of the surgeons who seemed to have been past the point of drunk by then._

_I hope that I'll see you soon._

_Merry Christmas._

_Kitty._

* * *

**A/N **Well, here's the second chapter. Elizabeth being a ballet dancer is my own private little headcanon - indulge me! Thank you so much for the reviews, especially my guest reviewers, Lisa and Guest and anon! The 'act' in the theatrical, of the little man singing Old King Cole was taken from the wonderful book 'The Roses of No Man's Land' by Lyn Macdonald, as was the being serenaded, and I thoroughly recommend reading it, as it gives such a good insight into the lives of the nurses! I'd love to hear from you all again! N xxx


	3. New Year

**.Part Three.**

**New Year**

There's an air of faded hopefulness hanging around the hospital like a mother's embrace as nineteen-seventeen draws to a close. Snow falls, winds howl and people pray that nineteen-eighteen will be the charm, that nineteen-eighteen will stop the war in its tracks and send it scurrying away like a frightened mouse.

America joined the war in the springtime, and already the Germans are retreating, huddling down in the shelter of the Hindenburg line and plotting their next move as though everyone are just players in one huge game of chess, as if the next move doesn't involve blood and screams and more lives lost for a pointless cause.

They've already have men through from the Third Battle of Ypres, talking breathlessly about the mud that caught them and held them as bullets rattled across No-Man's Land in their thousands, finding their marks so easily because no one could move.

Kitty and Elizabeth sort through the pharmacy, tidying and checking things off on a list given to them by one of the orderlies for surgery this afternoon. More VADs have arrived, three other girls who have their own tent, and they do the long, gruelling work that both Elizabeth and Kitty used to do when they first arrived, the endless washing and inventories and chores.

"Who do you think Rosalie's been receiving all those letters from lately?" asks Elizabeth as they move on from antiseptic to anaesthetic, piling up the bottles of ether onto the trolley to take to surgery.

Kitty laughs. "I don't know and I'm not going to pry. It's her business – but you know that Matron reads all our post, so I'm sure it can't be too salacious."

"But her face goes bright red whenever she gets one…do you think Rosalie's got a beau?"

"I don't know – she's certainly thawed towards men in her years here. Did you know she used to be the most prissy, stuck-up prude that ever walked the earth?"

"No, really?"

"Yes. But a few months here was enough to cure her of it. It's enough to cure anyone, really – all our sufferings of the heart seem so petty compared to this."

Elizabeth shrugs. "Yes, it does seem like that."

"Are you going let a certain someone have their New Year's kiss this year?" Kitty teases, and Elizabeth swats her as she reaches for another bottle of ether, the liquid sloshing about like the sea in a storm.

"Perhaps," she says, biting her lip. "I don't know. Are you going to let anyone near enough to kiss you?"

Kitty slants her a glance, deliberating. So far, only Rosalie, Miles and Matron (through the reading of the post) know of her and Thomas' relationship, though Flora is very close to guessing. As long as Gladys or one of the new VADs doesn't find out… "I have a beau, actually," she says quietly. "He used to work here, though you won't know him as he left for a Casualty Clearing Station before you arrived. I'm hoping he'll have leave for New Year."

Elizabeth nods, as though a puzzle piece is clicking into place in her brain. "So that's why you're always in a much better mood when the post is due."

Kitty shrugs. "I suppose I am – I worry about him, being so near the front. But you know you mustn't let slip to Gladys. If you do, the whole hospital will know before the week's out."

"I promise."

* * *

New Year descends on them with alarming speed, and Rosalie is besieged by requests to play Auld Lang Syne on the piano as the new year dawns, and spends every spare hour she has muttering over the sheet music in the chapel.

Thomas arrives on New Year's Eve, deep circles of tiredness traced in grey lines under his eyes, but his smile when he sees Kitty is as bright as a lighthouse beacon, warning off ships from becoming stranded on perilous rocks. When she takes his hand surreptitiously as they walk together to the canteen, her whole being fizzles with warmth at the fact that he's safe, he's here and that shell he talked about on the day of his leaving a year and a half ago has never materialised.

It's a quiet celebration, just the staff who aren't on night duty in the mess tent sipping at the golden bubbles of champagne from tall glasses that are usually only brought out for mess dinners. Kitty and Thomas sit in a corner of the tent, pretending they are just having a casual conversation about nothing in particular whilst Rosalie plays a soft love-song on the piano, and Miles watches Elizabeth laugh with Flora across the room.

It's good to see Flora laugh, now. Her beau was badly wounded at Passchendaele, and she's been so dispirited as the waxy autumn light dropped into the freezing mud of winter, running to the post-man whenever he came round to see if there was a letter from Charlie, or Charlie's mother who would be more informed over the state of her son's wellbeing.

But he's in England, now, being looked after and she's happier, pushing aside the ghost-like mantle that hung over her shoulders for weeks on end, and beginning to smile again.

The clock hands edge ever closer to midnight, and more champagne is poured out. Sister Quayle has a beady eye fixed on Kitty's back, but Kitty couldn't care less. Thomas is only here until the morning of the second and she's not letting any of their precious moments slip through her fingers without _very _good reason.

Bong, bong, bong. There is silence as the clock strikes twelve, and then he kisses her, gently, softly in view of absolutely everyone, but she doesn't care because it's a new year and please let this year bring the end of the shadows and the monsters stalking the battlefields ready to harvest more victims for the cruel embrace of death.

"Happy New Year," he says.

"Happy New Year," she whispers back, glancing for a second over his shoulder to where nurses and surgeons are exchanging pecks on the cheek, and hands are being shaken, and glasses raised. She watches as Elizabeth and Miles slip out of the tent, hand in hand, pleased that Elizabeth has given in, that her friends have found happiness among the bitter days of war.

"Here's to 1918!" Colonel Brett calls, and people clink glasses. Thomas kisses her again, tenderly, adoringly, and then the notes of the piano are falling through the air.

"For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne."

* * *

With the spring comes a fear rushing through the open doors of the Allied army. Russia, torn apart by revolutions, has signed an armistice with Germany, and there are more men ready to push the Allies back to the sea. Matron gathers the nurses together to announce the news, quelling panic with her steely gaze, and insisting that should anything happen, they are nurses under the protection of the Red Cross.

Kitty feels as though she's in a dream all through that spring, praying for Thomas' safety in his Casualty Clearing Station as reports come through that the Germans are advancing, that they're taking everything in their path, be it soldier, gun or ambulance. Every letter from Thomas is an answered prayer, every word something holy. He's still alive, he's still behind the Allied lines.

Until it all changes.

In May – with the white flowers and talk of Whitsun traditions between the soldiers – comes a letter on rough paper, the address written in a spidery hand that is so unlike Thomas' careless scrawl or – God forbid – her family's elegantly practised calligraphy. She waits until that evening when she's off the wards and the sun is dying a fiery death over the horizon to rip it open, unfold it with shaking hands.

_2__nd__ May 1918_

_Dear Miss Trevelyan,_

_You have no clue who I am, and I know nothing about you save what my son has told me. My name is Moire Gillan, and as you may realise, I'm Tommy's mother. Now, I can't write, so my youngest son Rodric is doing it for me, but I'm afraid I have some news which I felt I must tell you. Tommy's been reported missing. We had the telegram a couple of days ago._

_I'm praying for his safety, and I know you will be too. He loves you - that much I can see from his letters - and he'll be back to us as soon as the Germans are beaten by our boys. I'm praying for him, my dear, and that's all we can do now._

Kitty stumbles backwards, catching her heel on the boardwalk, a choked cry rising in her throat. No, no this can't be happening. Tom's not missing, he's not – he _promised _he'd keep safe, no…_no…_

"Kitty?" Rosalie appears behind her, a bucket of soiled bandages in her hand. "Kitty, are you quite alright?"

"Yes," Kitty says faintly. "No."

"You! Take this to the laundry!" she calls to one of the newer VADs who is loitering near one of the surgeons. The girl frowns, and marches over to take it from Rosalie, who puts her arm around Kitty.

"Come on, let's get you to the tent."

Kitty starts to cry half-way there as the shock hits her like a brick wall. He can't be missing, no, he promised, he…

Rosalie sits her down on her bed, kneeling in front of her. "What's the matter?"

Kitty woodenly holds out the letter. Rosalie reads it, slowly, her face turning white as she reaches the end. "Oh Kitty…"

"Don't. Don't give me pity. I won't be able to cope," Kitty says.

"Look, I know it's bad. But missing men often turn up in the strangest of places, you know that? And he'll be back to you before you know it – that man _loves _you Kitty, I've seen it in his eyes when you're not looking, and a man in love always keeps his word."

"Since when did you become such an expert in love?" Kitty asks dully.

"Since…well, it really doesn't matter." Rosalie takes Kitty's hand in her own for a second. "Don't give up on him. Never, ever give up."

"Alright," Kitty says. "Alright."

* * *

_27__th__ June 1918_

_Dear Kitty,_

_I'm not dead. Or missing. I'm in a prison camp at Heidelberg. We've been on the move, so I haven't been able to write until now, and I'm so sorry for all of this. I'm sorry for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'm…just, I'm sorry. _

_Don't worry about me. The only thing I'm likely to die of between now and the end of the war is boredom. There's nothing to do – we here are exempt from the work the lower ranks are given, and all we do is sit around all day. There's a library here though, and I've managed to find a few medical books to pass the time, and I'm with two of the other surgeons from my Casualty Clearing Station. Sometimes, we're called in to help in the infirmary, but most of the time it's sitting and doing nothing._

_I sometimes think about what happens after this is all finished – we've never given much thought to what we'll do after the war. I'd like you to meet my family in Glasgow, though we don't have to settle there if you don't want to. I suppose I'll find a job in a hospital somewhere – we could find a place in London, if you want, and you could try and get in contact with Sylvie, somehow. _

_I hope that you're well. Write to me soon._

_Missing you._

_Thomas._

* * *

_13__th__ July 1918_

_Tom,_

_Thank God, thank God, thank God. Never, ever put me through anything like that again! I was worried sick about you…oh thank God you're alive. I don't know what I would have done if you'd died, I just…oh God, look at me. I can't stop crying. _

_I've talked to Matron, and I wish I could send you a package to alleviate the boredom, but there's nothing that can be done apart from hope the Red Cross deliver to your camp. I can't do anything, and she can't do anything, but they're all relieved here that you're safe. Miles especially – I hope he writes to you too, and I think Colonel Brett is talking about pulling some strings to try and get something through. He's still got a fond spot for you, even after two years of you working elsewhere, and has more connections than either Matron or I._

_I would very much like to meet your family, after the war. I received a letter from your mother, when the news first came through, and she said you'd been writing about me. I hope that you've been able to write to them too, and let them know that you are safe. And well, after that, I don't know. I would like to stay in London, at least for a while, for if there is a chance I can see Sylvie again I don't want to miss it. But what I'd like most of all is a little house somewhere, or a flat, nothing ostentatious or anything – I've grown up in large, beautiful houses and I'm sick of them – and just to live. We've both seen so many die that, I think, the best way to honour their sacrifice is just to live our lives as best we can, and be happy. I have a feeling that's what they would want, those men we couldn't save._

_Try not to let the boredom get to you too much._

_I love you._

_Kitty._

* * *

**A/N **I know we've skipped on very quickly, but it's my intention only to have a couple more chapters before the war ends. Thank you to 'anon' for reviewing. For this chapter, it would be so lovely to hear from _everyone _who reads it, as a treat to me as I've almost, almost finished my exams! I would so love to hear everyone's feedback, so click that little button at the bottom of the page! N xxx


	4. Influenza

**.Part Four. **

**Influenza**

November draws on again in a wave of influenza patients and newspaper headlines, and the sick and wounded keep on pouring into the overstretched hospital. All the nurses are busier than ever, running to and fro from the wards, bathing foreheads, holding buckets for the worst of the flu cases to be sick into, and yet more and more still arrive.

One morning, at the beginning of November when the promise of peace is hanging over their heads like Tantalus' fruit-tree, Kitty comes across Elizabeth, leaning against the side of the pharmacy, her whole body shaking as she coughs into her handkerchief.

"Elizabeth?"

"I-I'm fine…got to get to the ward…"

"That doesn't look fine to me," Kitty says, wrapping an arm around Elizabeth's trembling shoulders. She is radiating heat through her uniform like the glowing embers of a furnace. "Come on."

"Wh-where are we going? I said, I've got to go to the wards."

"Matron would have an apoplectic fit if I allowed you to go onto the wards in this condition. Come on, Elizabeth, you're only going to get worse if you refuse to go to bed."

"Alright," Elizabeth whispers slowly, straightening up.

* * *

The Sick Sisters' Quarters, thankfully, has several empty beds. Kitty, like a few of the other nurses, caught the influenza early in October when the vibrant reds and golds were decorating the tops of the hospital tents in the dying breath of summer. It was a horrific three days – all she can remember is throwing up, and being so hot, then so cold, over and over again until she felt like screaming, but it's in the past and now, apparently, she's immune to it. The Sister in Charge takes one look at Elizabeth and frowns. "Another one? They're all dropping like flies. Into bed, then, nurse."

"It's alright," Kitty whispers to Elizabeth as the Sister takes her other arm. "You'll be better soon, I promise."

"Tell…tell Miles." Elizabeth's voice is like a breath of wind, so weak that it makes Kitty hurt somewhere deep inside. "Please, Kitty, tell him."

"I will," Kitty squeezes her hand gently. "Go to bed. Rest. I'll come and see you after my shift."

* * *

It takes her until lunchtime to find Miles, between constantly being ordered around the wards, sent for more cold water and bandages to use as compresses, but when she manages to snatch a few minutes to eat, he's there, talking worriedly with one of the other surgeons. Most of the surgeons have been transferred from the surgical side of operations to the medical side to cope with the sheer volume of patients admitted for influenza – the wretched disease is sapping the life from the hospital with more vigour than the war ever did like some kind of leech. Kitty can only hope that Thomas is alright in Germany, that he hasn't caught it because if he dies, she's not sure if she could cope.

"Captain Hesketh-Thorne?" she breaks into his conversation, and he looks up.

"Yes, Nurse Trevelyan?"

"Could I have a word?"

He nods, saying something in low tones to his companion, and letting Kitty lead him to a quiet corner of the mess. "What's happened, Kitty?"

"It's Elizabeth," Kitty says quietly. His face slowly turns white, then grey. She reaches out to touch his hand.

"Oh God…no,"

"I've taken her to the Sick Sisters' Quarters, and I'll go round when my shift finishes…I hate to tell you this, but she's not in a good way, Miles. You'd better go see her, soon as you can."

He blinks hard for a second, turns his face away to the canvas wall as he tries to steady his breathing. "Alright."

Kitty nods. "I promise, I'll look after her all night if that's what it takes."

"Don't let yourself get too run down," he manages.

"I won't. It'll be alright, she'll pull through." Even to her own ears, Kitty doesn't sound convinced.

Miles nods again, and walks away.

She wishes she could help him – bring back the beautiful optimism he wore like a lone flower in a field of death in the earlier years of the war, but she can't. There's no way of knowing if you'll survive or die with this disease, and she knows that the not-knowing will drive him mad.

* * *

When she goes back to the Sick Sisters' Quarters as the pale day dissolves into a violet twilight, there's another familiar face lying in the bed two down from Elizabeth.

"Gladys?" Kitty asks, one hand going to her mouth. Gladys had seemed fine up until now, she'd brushed the threat of contagion off her like water sliding off a duck's back, but now she's here, pale with two spots of colour burning in her cheeks.

"Yes, me," Gladys says dolefully. "I got it too."

"Do you want anything?"

"No, it's alright. I'm a mild case. Flora's coming to sit with me later."

"Fine," Kitty says, going over to Elizabeth. Sister is sitting by her bed, wiping her brow tenderly. She looks up as Kitty approaches, a strained smile pulling at the edges of her mouth.

"She went to sleep as soon as we got her into bed, and now when she's awake, she's completely delirious."

"Do you want me to take over with that?" Kitty offers.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. Is there anything else that needs doing?"

The Sister thinks for a second. "You'd better write to her family."

* * *

Kitty stays there all night, gently sponging the sweat off Elizabeth's face, holding her hand when she starts to mumble in her sleep, something that sounds a lot like ballet steps. As dawn chases the darkness away in a triumph of gold, she retrieves a pad from the Sister's desk and begins to write, the pen bleeding tears of black ink into the paper as though it is already mourning.

Miles comes in at about seven o'clock, sleepless circles deep under his eyes. He stands at the end of the bed, his hands fisted around the metal bars, watching Elizabeth's laboured breathing. "How is she doing?" he asks, eventually, in a voice cracked by the nightmares that dance defiance behind his eyes.

"I've written to her family," Kitty says, simply.

"God." He bows his head for a silent second. "I'll be back, soon. Get someone else to take over, Kitty, you look exhausted."

"No," Kitty says, simply. "I'm staying with her. If you don't mind telling Matron…"

"Alright," he says, and with one last look at Elizabeth, turns and walks away.

* * *

By that evening, she's even worse, trembling and shaking with blood running from her nose in a stream of scarlet, vomiting over and over again into a bucket. Kitty holds her hair back, cleans her up every time it misses, and a doctor is sent over from the hospital main. Miles abandons his rounds to come and help look after her, holding her hand and whispering things Kitty doesn't hear into Elizabeth's ear.

After a long while of this, the other doctor exchanges a look with Miles. "What's happening?" Kitty asks, tiredness making her vision blurry.

"If she survives through the night, she'll live," he says gravely. "Keep doing as you're doing – I've got to go around the others."

It goes on, and on, and Kitty daren't look away from her for fear that a single moment of not being watched could send her spirit fleeing to death's open arms.

At some point during the night, Rosalie comes in, her red hair falling out of her headdress. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks, softly, resting a comforting hand on Kitty's shoulder.

"No, thank you," Kitty says, lunging with the bowl as Elizabeth is sick again. How much longer will this go on for?

"Do you want something to eat, something to drink?"

Kitty risks as glance at Rosalie. "A cup of tea would be wonderful, Rosalie."

"Alright. Captain, would you like one too?"

"Thank you," he says, rubbing his thumb across the back of Elizabeth's knuckles.

Rosalie disappears to the end of the ward, and Miles looks across at Kitty, slowly, painfully. "I never realised how different it is when it's your loved one battling for life," he says, as though it's just dawning on him.

Kitty reaches across to take his free hand. There are no words.

* * *

Rosalie returns with their tea, and goes around the other patients. Her footsteps stop for a second, and there is a moment of slow, deathly silence. "Captain, Gladys isn't breathing!"

Miles swears and leaps to his feet. "Stay with Elizabeth," he orders Kitty, before going across the ward as quickly as he can. There are panicked whispers as other stricken nurses are jolted out of sleep, looking around to see what is going on. Miles is bent over Gladys' bed. "Go and get Matron," he says to Rosalie, who begins to run, opening and shutting the door behind her in a draught of icy air.

Elizabeth has subsided against the pillows, still, quiet. Kitty puts a finger on Elizabeth's pulse, desperation pounding through her veins in the place of blood. Elizabeth can't die, not if Gladys is…oh, God, when will this night ever end?

There is the sound of quick footsteps, and then Matron is there, a coat wrapped tightly over her nightdress and plaited hair swinging across her shoulder. She joins Miles at Gladys' bed. Kitty can't see what's happening, and it terrifies her.

The two step back. Rosalie is by the door, tears dribbling from her eyes.

No, it can't be…it can't…Gladys, bright, cheerful, irritating Gladys can't be dead…no, no…

When Kitty looks back on this moment in years to come, she always remembers it as the worst night of the war, when a young nurse's life was snuffed out like a candle.

* * *

**A/N **Sorry for the wait, and for pulling a Downton Abbey on you! This chapter and the next one are a little shorter than the others, because I felt they had come to their natural end. Reviews will make Elizabeth feel better! N xx


	5. Armistice

**.Part Five.**

**Armistice**

When it finally, inevitably comes, there is no time to celebrate. By all rights, there should be cheering, hats thrown into the air and people dancing to rejoice at the end of a war that has lasted four years and a hundred days, has been waged across three continents, has hurried so many millions of people to shallow graves marked only by wooden crosses.

But when the time arrives, there is a short announcement by Matron, a two minute silence, and then back to work tending the influenza patients who mutter restlessly, held helpless under the spell of the delirium. The men on Kitty's ward are recovering from the disease, and the news spreads through them like wildfire, kindling hope that they'll never have to see the inside of a trench again, that they can go home to their families as soon as they are better. But some are silent, staring into space. She knows a little how they feel. The war has shaped their lives for so long, it's hard to imagine that it's all come to an end.

Slowly, ever so slowly, like the high tide creeping its way back down the beach, the hospital begins to recede. Convoys to the ports leave to return empty with the wind whistling through the canvas-topped trucks, and ward tents on the edges are dismantled into piles of canvas and planks. With every passing day, the hospital inches in on itself, and Kitty thinks of what will happen when Thomas comes. What she'll say. What they'll do, when they're both discharged from service. They've talked about it so much in their letters, turned it over and over, but now their dreams are becoming reality and it makes Kitty as giddy as she was when she was a young girl with stars in her eyes and a head full of clouds.

The tents disappear, the time turns over like the pages of a book. But still, he doesn't come. She wonders whether he's already gone back to England, whether he's waiting for her there, but he would have written, wouldn't he?

During the day, when she's not loading men onto trucks, or tending to those who are still too weak to be moved, she paces restlessly up and down the wards, wishing with all her might that she could squeeze the space between them into nothingness. When she's off-duty, she sits by Elizabeth's bedside – she's slowly becoming stronger, recovering the colour in her cheeks – or talks to Flora and Rosalie. Flora's quieter now, ever since Gladys died, and she spends a lot of her time writing to her beau or sitting by the little grave in the cemetery. The war's forced them all to grow up and to close the lid on their histories, and it's affecting everyone.

When December is setting in on the few tents that remain in glittering crystals of frost and loving fingers of icy air that delight in bringing a frozen, apple-red flush to their cheeks, she is loading blanket-wrapped convalescents into the truck to Boulogne, almost the last of them.

Then, behind her, there is the sound of someone clearing their throat.

She looks over her shoulder, and her heart leaps into her mouth. He's thinner, greyer, than he was before, but she would know him anywhere by the blue of his eyes that is the blue of the waves of the sea, crashing against the shore.

"Thomas?" she manages, her voice trembling like the wings of a butterfly.

He smiles, and then she's closing the space between them, wrapping her arms tightly around him and, to her utter mortification, beginning to cry. His arms fall around her, holding her so tightly that she can barely breath, but she doesn't care because he's here and the war's over, and he's still alive and oh thank God for this moment that she wants to stop and live in forever.

"I missed you so much," he says into her hair, and she takes a deep, shaking breath.

"I know."

He pulls away, holding her wrists and looking deep into her as though he's looking at her soul. "Kitty Trevelyan, will you marry me?"

Her breath catches in her throat, and fresh tears spring to her eyes. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I will."

* * *

By the middle of January, all that remains is the sleeping tents, and the offices belonging to Colonel Brett and Matron. People too have been trickling off with the supplies – Rosalie and Flora left a few days ago for London with many tears and embraces, Flora to go her to her parents and out to the country, Rosalie to her aunt's house. Soon, it is only Kitty and Elizabeth left out of the nine of them that had haunted this hospital for so long, and finally, the day comes when a truck is idling in the remnants of the main quad, and Kitty is bidding goodbye to Matron, trying to keep her composure in a tidal wave of emotion that threatens to drown her.

"I hope that life treats you well, Miss Trevelyan," Matron says, clasping her hand.

"Thank you," Kitty says, her voice thick with restrained sobs. "It was an honour to work under you."

Matron nods, and smiles for the first time in three long years. "Thank you. Now, you must go. The ship will not wait forever."

Kitty nods and turns towards the truck. Miles and Elizabeth are already sitting up in the truck bed, and Thomas helps Kitty in beside him. She shivers and pulls her coat around her shoulders as the cold, playful breeze nips at the nape of her neck. The gate is slammed and bolted, and the engine roars beneath them like a monster, and then they're jolting away towards the fence.

Kitty's not the only one crying as they leave behind years of their lives, buried in the French soil.

* * *

**A/N **This is a really short, filler chapter, I'm afraid, but it had to end where it did! Thank you to anon for reviewing! I'm in the zone of posting a few little oneshots at the moment, the first of which is called 'Angels With Their Rolling Pins' and if any of you have any ideas for more oneshots, please drop a review with them! N xxx


	6. Glasgow

**.Part Six.**

**Glasgow**

The train rattles into the station in a clanking of wheels on rails and shrill bursts of white steam, like fire from a dragon's nostrils. The doors open, and people flood out onto the platform like a river. Carried in their wake, Kitty holds onto Thomas' arm tightly, her carpet bag that she insisted on carrying swinging from her hand. After four years of the ordered chaos of the war, this feels so strange – a crowd working as separate people, rather than as the limbs of one large, united body.

Ropes of light twist their way through the high-arched windows, shattering into thousands of shards on the paved floor, and they duck out into the bright winter sunlight, huddled into coats. "We can get a taxi, if you like," Thomas says. "Or we can walk. It's only about twenty minutes to my family's flat."

"I don't mind walking," Kitty says.

He smiles slightly, and they begin to walk down the street, weaving in and out of people hurrying in the opposite direction and beggars sitting on the corners. They cross a wide river, grey and blue and churning towards the sea. "We used to swim in that as children when it was hot enough," Thomas tells her. "Or try and catch fish, though we were never very successful."

Kitty laughs. "I can imagine it."

After another five minutes, he stops her for a second, turns her to face him. "Kitty…"

"Yes?"

"I'm just going to warn you now – my family's flat is very different from anything you've ever known. Even the hospital is a palace compared to where I grew up. They've managed to keep it clean and buy a second room with some of my earnings, but it's…"

"Tom," Kitty says gently, squeezing his hand. "It doesn't matter. You know I don't care about appearances, not after all we've been through with the war and everything."

He nods. "Alright, then."

* * *

Commercial Road is a dingy affair lined with dirty Victorian tenement blocks. Children with no shoes or socks run around after a faded ball, laughing and shrieking like crows. Washing flaps forlornly out of windows. Thomas leads her expertly down the street, ignoring the people that stare as they pass. Kitty's only wearing a simple wool dress that she bought when she went shopping with Elizabeth, but passers-by look as though they would rip it from her back without a second thought.

They stop outside a block halfway down the street, and Thomas pushes the door open; the hinges protest loudly like the voices of little old women. Then they step inside, over someone's clothes and into a muddied corridor with endless stairs leading up and up and up.

"Well, this is it," Thomas says quietly, an unidentifiable emotion burning behind the façade. Kitty smiles at him, trying to be reassuring.

The Gillan family live on the fifth floor, and she holds Thomas' hand tightly as they manoeuvre their way up the rickety steps. From one of the rooms on a floor they pass, there is the sound of someone shouting, and a loud crack. Kitty flinches at the noise – she's heard far too many of those, felt the stinging pain racing across her cheek too many times…

They've stopped outside a door that doesn't quite seem to fit in its frame, the paint peeling back like the skin of a burn victim. Thomas knocks once. There is murmuring from behind the door, and then it is flung open and a lanky girl barrels into Thomas, almost pushing him over.

"Ma! It's Tommy! He's home!"

"Hello, Catriona," Thomas says, disentangling himself from the girl and holding her at arms' length, smiling like the sun. "Look at you – you're all grown up now."

"Oh, don't say that. Everyone says that. Who's this? Oh, is this your fiancée? Hello, I'm Catriona Gillan, Tommy's youngest sister. It's so lovely to have you here – Tommy hasn't told us that much in his letters, and I've been dying to meet you forever!"

"It's lovely to meet you too," Kitty manages, surprise overwhelming her like a wave. She didn't realise that Thomas' family would be so…well, friendly. The way her family did it was an introduction, a shaking of hands, perhaps kisses on the cheek and politely inquiring about the other person, but nothing like this complete exuberance that radiates off Catriona as though she's a star shining in the sky.

"Calm down, Cat," Thomas says, pushing his little sister gently aside and looping an arm around Kitty's waist.

"Well, you'd better come in. Ma's just cooking. We've been saving up all our ration points and money for ages…"

Catriona holds the door open, and ushers them through into a room with several, battered chairs, a table, and a doorway leading to another room where Kitty can see several mattresses pushed together on the floor. At the dirt-encrusted window that looks over the street, a small, stout woman is busily stirring a huge black pot that bubbles away to itself softly.

"Ma!" Catriona says. "Ma, look who it is!"

The woman turns around, and smiles. "Tommy, I've been expecting you for days now. Where've you been?"

"Sorry, Ma," Thomas says, and Kitty almost laughs because he's almost thirty and still looks like a chastened child when his mother tells him off. "The train took a long time, and we had to see a friend of ours into his new flat."

"Well, you're here now," she says, bustling over to pull Thomas into a hug. "My boy, I missed you very much."

"I missed you too, Ma."

There's a moment, then, when Kitty suddenly wishes that her parents hadn't been so inadequate, that they had loved her and Alistair like they should have instead of handing them over to nurses the second they were born. She wishes her mother had looked at her like Thomas' is at him now, with unconditional love beaming out of her like sunbeams.

"And this must be Miss Trevelyan," Mrs Gillan says. "It's so good to have you here."

"Please, call me Kitty," Kitty says quickly.

"Kitty, then." Mrs Gillan wags a finger in Thomas' direction. "You never said how beautiful she is in your letters."

A blush burns in Kitty's cheeks, and Thomas throws a look at her. "Because I wanted you to see for yourself."

* * *

Dinner with the Gillans is unlike anything Kitty has ever experienced in her life. After they arrived, Catriona was sent off for various other relatives who live nearby, returning breathless and bright-eyed with the promise that they were all on their way. And now, Kitty is sitting on the bench along the back wall, sandwiched between two of Thomas' older sisters, Bridget and Lorna, who listen eagerly as she talks about her time as a nurse. Their various children who range from ages three to six run around out in the corridor, their shrieking loud above the chatter of the adults.

When dinnertime eventually comes, Mrs Gillan somehow manages to fit almost twenty people into the tiny room, and feed them with the help of Lorna and Bridget who go home to make food in their flats and bring it over. It's cramped and loud, with people shouting to be heard, and the food is so different from even the fare they received at the hospital, but there's something comforting about it, like a warm blanket draped around her.

Thomas has been dragged away by his brothers – Arthur, who sends her a smile and a 'Tommy, you never said the girl you're marrying was the girl who nursed me during the war' and Rodric, a shy boy of around seventeen.

"Where will you stay whilst you're up here?" Lorna asks.

"I'm staying here with your mother, Catriona and Rodric," Kitty says. "I think Tom's going to live with Arthur."

"And where are you going to get married? Here, or in London?"

Surprised by the bluntness of the question, Kitty pauses for a second before managing to collect her thoughts. "I believe in London – so all our other friends don't have to travel up here."

"Ah, I was hoping you'd say that. I've always wanted to see London, and now we have an excuse!" Bridget exclaims happily.

"Do you have a date in mind?"

"We haven't really discussed it yet," Kitty says cautiously. "Several of our friends will be getting married soon, too, so we're not sure when our turn will be."

"Ach, well. As long as you tell us all in good time," Lorna relaxes back against the wall. "I'm already looking forward to it."

* * *

That evening, when the last dregs of the family have been cleared from the little two-room flat, Thomas and Kitty go for a walk along the river. The few stars that are not obscured by the clouds are reflected dejectedly in the river's black surface, and the city is quiet, slumbering like a giant beast.

"Arthur says there's unrest here at the moment," Thomas says after a while. "Lots of people are going on strike – that's why my brothers and brothers-in-law weren't at work today."

"Do you think they'll resolve it all?"

"I've no idea. There's going to be a rally in George Square tomorrow – my brothers are going and there's nothing I can do to talk them out of it."

"Might it become violent?"

"There's a high chance…look, Kitty, they've asked me to go with them and I've said yes."

"Why? Why do you have to go?" Kitty can't quite believe what she's hearing.

"They're my brothers…"

"They're both grown men – they're perfectly capable of looking after themselves!"

"Rodric is only seventeen. I'm not letting him walk out there on his own."

"He'll have Arthur – I can't bear the thought of you getting hurt. Any of you," Kitty's voice gets louder, she can't help herself.

"We won't, Kitty, we won't. I'll keep them out of the worst of it – but I'm a doctor. I can be on the edges looking after people if it does start to escalate."

"And I suppose I'm to stay at home with your mother and Catriona, just waiting and praying for your safety? I did enough of that when you went missing, Thomas Gillan, I'm not doing it again!"

"I have to go," he says, and there is a note of finality in his voice. She subsides into silence, anger coiling at the base of her chest.

As they reach Mrs Gillan's door, he turns to her. "Goodnight – I'll see you tomorrow evening. Don't even think about following me to the rally."

He kisses her cheek, then is gone, and she's turning back into the falling down flat. She's always hated leaving – but it's one thing to leave for a Casualty Clearing Station, quite another to leave for a rally that is poised on the edge of becoming a riot.

Damn his stubbornness.

* * *

The next morning, it only takes a few whispered words in Catriona's ear when Mrs Gillan isn't looking for a plan to form. She's a willing co-conspirator, and as the day draws on, she asks, "Ma, can we go to see Lorna's neighbour? Lorna said that she's just had a baby, and I'd like to introduce Kitty to people around here."

Mrs Gillan smiles. "Yes, of course, dear. But mind you stay out of the streets as much as possible – there's a rally on and it could get ugly."

"Yes, Mrs Gillan," Kitty says, taking her warm coat and scarf from her carpet bag, and putting them on. Last night it was strange, sleeping top-to-tail with Catriona and Mrs Gillan – Rodric slept in the main room – as she's always, _always _had her own bed, but with the coldness creeping stealthily in under the door, the warmth of two other people pressed against her was very welcome.

The stairs creak as they make their way down to street level. "Lorna lives a few streets away," Catriona explains. "We've got to make it look like we're heading there, but when we get out of sight we'll head into the centre. We don't have any money for the underground, I'm afraid."

"It's alright. Walking's fine."

As the two make their way across the dull, grey streets of Gorbals, Catriona calling out greetings to almost everyone they meet, Kitty gets to know a little more about Thomas' youngest sister. That she went to school up until last year, but they need more money than the bit Thomas can send them from his salary, and so she's working afternoons in a factory near the railway line, carding wool until her fingers are raw. That she loves singing. That she goes to church, even though only the Irish Catholics do that, because she likes listening to the choir and the battered piano that serves as their organ.

Towards the centre, the houses become nicer, more widely spaced and then give way into shops with pretty displays in their neat glass windows, flowers, dresses, hats. In the window of one – a smart, bowed, green-painted affair, Catriona looks longingly at the beautiful cream and purple spring dress on display, with lace at the hem and little buttons on the shoulders.

"I wish I could afford something as beautiful as that," she sighs. "But I'd have nowhere to wear it, would I?"

Kitty reaches out to take her hand. "One day, when Tom and I are settled, I'll buy you a dress like that," she says.

"Really?"

"Yes, of course," Kitty can't help but smile at the look on Catriona's face, as though she's a child on Christmas morning. "If he forgives me after this little adventure."

"Oh, he will," Catriona vows confidently. "He loves you so much – it's clear to see. I remember when I was a little girl and he'd take me places after school to get me out from under Ma's feet, and girls would sometimes come up to us and giggle and twist their hair around their fingers. He was never interested, at all, until out of the blue, a letter from France comes with the announcement that he's walking out with someone. I figured that whoever she was, she must be pretty special, and here you are."

"I never knew that," Kitty says. "We don't particularly talk about the past. I mean, we know a bit, but after the war and everything, we're looking more to the future than dwelling on what's gone before."

"Sensible, I guess. Come on, we'd better go before the rally's over."

As they approach George Square, there is the sound of windows smashing, of a crowd roaring like a mighty dragon breathing fire from its nostrils. People run towards them, mothers with their children clutched close.

"Are we really going to do this?" Catriona asks suddenly, fear setting her blue eyes alight.

"You can go home, if you want," Kitty says, the sounds making her all the more determined to find Thomas.

"No, I'm staying with you," Catriona reaches out and grasps her hand. "Let's go, and get it done quickly."

* * *

The riot is worse than Kitty ever imagined. Police bearing truncheons are trying to hold back a seething crowd, fighting with men carrying what look to be iron railings. Bottles from the back of a lorry that is stranded in the centre of the square like a beached whale are being thrown, flying shards of glass that glitter like knives in the air.

Catriona's hand is squeezing Kitty's in a death grip as burly dock-workers push roughly past them, but Kitty ploughs onwards, her heart racing with adrenaline and pure, outright fear. As a nurse in the war, she only dealt with the end product, the wounded, the sick, she's never experienced the terror of being caught in the heat of a battle with no way to protect herself against people who seem intent on trampling them or crushing them against a wall in their attempts to get to the police, to keep on fighting.

A glass shard from one of the bottles comes flying overhead, so close to her head that she closes her eyes and holds her breath for a second, before continuing to push against the tide of the crowd.

"Please, Kitty, let's just go home!" Catriona sobs over the noise. "We'll never find them!"

Kitty turns to her, desperate, terrified. "How do we get out, though?"

"I don't know!"

After that, it turns into a nightmare. People cram into them, robbing them of their breath, huge men who give no thought for the two frightened women in their midst. At one point, something sharp scrapes past Kitty's face and she screams but no-one cares, and they keep pushing and pushing and it feels like hours later when the people slowly begin to thin out and then they're out of it into the entrance of one of the side streets.

Catriona sinks to the floor in a crying heap, and Kitty feels her own legs buckle underneath her, feels the cold cobbles scratch through her skirt. The freezing winter air is a blessing, and she gulps it down as though it is a precious wine, taking deep breaths that make her head spin. They're alive, they've alive. But where's Thomas?

After a while, Kitty finds the strength to pull a still-sobbing Catriona into her arms, to comfort her like she used to comfort Sylvie during thunderstorms, rocking her back and forth and murmuring soothing nonsense.

They stay there for an age, the sound of violence washing over them until Kitty finally finds the willpower to get to her feet. "Come on, Cat," she says, gently. "Your mother will be wondering where we are."

Catriona stumbles upright, and Kitty wraps an arm around her waist. They have barely gotten three steps when a figure disentangles itself from the fringes of the crowd, a figure that Kitty would know anywhere. Not caring that he'll be angry, she lets go of Catriona and runs to him, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

"Thank God we've found you," she says into the material of his shirt, holding tightly onto the last shreds of her sanity.

"Kitty? What are you doing here? I told you to stay at home!"

"Catriona and I…"

"Catriona's here too?"

"She showed me how to get here," Kitty whispers, letting go of him and taking a step backwards. She knows that Thomas is nothing like Elliott, but their arguments have only ever been petty and small before, and she doesn't know what he'll do.

He stares at her for a second, rakes a hand through his hair. "That was a very foolish thing to do," he says, eventually, anger simmering in every word. "You could have been killed, Kitty! You're not strong enough to defend yourself against men like these, and neither is Catriona, however tough she thinks she is!"

"I'm sorry," she says, so quietly and dejectedly. All of his anger evaporates into steam as he breathes out, slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It's alright. Just never do anything like that again." And then she's in his arms, and he's holding her close and she can almost feel him trembling. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," he says, so quietly it is like a breath of fresh air.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again. "I'm sorry."

He presses his lips to the top of her head, and she takes in a deep breath. "My mother is going to be furious with both of you."

Kitty winds her fingers through his, and steps out of his embrace. "I deserve it. Catriona not so much – it wasn't her idea."

"Try telling that to Ma when she's in a rage. Come on, let's go and find Catriona."

* * *

"You made me lose ten years of my life in one second when I went around to Lorna's neighbour and she said you hadn't been!" Mrs Gillan shouts, waving her wooden spoon threateningly. "Catriona Gillan, you were deliberately deceitful, and _you_ weren't much better! Imagine if some man had stopped rioting long enough to have taken a fancy to you! You wouldn't have got out of that square alive!"

Then, to Kitty's utter surprise and shame, Mrs Gillan bursts into tears and pulls them both into a tight embrace. "Don't either of you ever do anything like it again!"

When they're finally released from the prison of her arms, Kitty sits back down at the table, guilt tugging away at her insides.

"Now, Catriona get on with dinner. Kitty, come with me."

Mrs Gillan leads her into the bedroom, and shuts the door. "I'm really sorry," Kitty begins, but Mrs Gillan holds up a hand.

"My dear, it's alright. I just wanted you to know that it shows you love my Tommy very much if you'd walk right into a riot for him. I couldn't say it out there, as Catriona is still in trouble…"

"I should be as well," Kitty says, quickly. "It was my idea."

"But you are a guest."

"I can help Catriona with her punishment, please, let me. It's not fair that she should take all of the blame."

"Very well, you may go and help her with dinner. You will be my daughter too, therefore I suppose it is only fair that you take on half the punishment. Go on, then, to work."

"Thank you, Mrs Gillan," Kitty says, getting to her feet and opening the door. "Thank you."

* * *

That evening, after everything from their meagre dinner is cleared away, Kitty and Thomas go outside to be alone. The street is deserted, although there is cacophony of screams and smashes drifting over from neighbouring areas. They sit against the damp wall of the tenement, and she rests her head against his shoulder, marvelling in their little bubble of peace.

"I really am sorry," she says, after a while.

"Don't," he replies, absently playing with her fingers. "Don't apologise. Just thank God that you got out of it alive, and we'll leave it all behind."

"Tom…"

"Yes?"

"Catriona said something today, that I…I feel so bad about…"

"She didn't say anything nasty did she? She's not cruel by nature, but she can be a bit unthinking at times."

"No, she didn't…she said that you'd never been interested in any woman before, and that when you told them about me, she thought that I must be pretty special. But I'm not, Tom, I'm not special and…"

"You're talking nonsense, Kitty," he shifts so he can touch her cheek.

"Tom, I had an affair. That's why I came to France all that time ago. I had an affair."

Tears filter through her lashes, and she can't look at his expression, she can't see the disgust, the pity, the…

"Kitty, look at me."

"I can't."

"Kitty, please."

Slowly, reluctantly, she turns her face back, and he kisses her, softly, carefully, taking her utterly by surprise. "From what I know of your ex-husband, I'd guessed something like this," he says. "And frankly, I don't blame you at all. It's that bastard who's to blame, and I swear to God if I ever get my hands on him…"

"No, don't be violent. Not that he doesn't deserve it, but I've seen so much violence I just want it to end."

"I know, sweetheart."

She loves the way the endearment falls so naturally from his lips, so unlike the way everyone in her old life always pretended to care about her.

"Thank you," she whispers. "For understanding."

* * *

**A/N **Hello there, again. This is a bit of monster chapter, I'm afraid, but everything that went into it had to be there, so yeah. The riots are based on the real 'Battle of George Square' in Glasgow, that started on the 31st of January 1919 over the length of the working week. I'd love to hear what you all think of Tom's family! :) Needle xxx


	7. London

**.Part Seven.**

**London**

It's the first spring of peacetime, and London is blossoming. People hurry back and forth like ants in a giant nest, buzzing with the feeling of there-is-no-more-war. Flowers cover the bushes in the parks with delicate white lace, bees buzz and children run about shrieking and calling to each other as though they're seagulls at the beach; joy at life has never been more evident.

When they arrive back at Paddington station amid steam and tottering towers of bags, Rosalie is waiting for them, holding the arm of a man wearing spectacles. "Kitty! Thomas! Over here!" she calls.

"Rosalie!" Kitty embraces her friend tightly. "How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you for asking. Kitty, this is my fiancé, Greville. Greville, this is one of my closest friends, Kitty Trevelyan and her fiancé, Thomas Gillan."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Kitty says, before Rosalie takes her arm and leads her off, leaving the two men to handle the bags.

"How was Glasgow?" Rosalie asks as the two step into the busy street, sidestepping men in business suits and a gaggle of women pushing prams.

"Different," Kitty admits. "Thomas' family are so lovely…his sister Catriona and I managed to get ourselves into a bit of trouble…"

Rosalie gives her a look, and Kitty laughs, the sound like tinkling bells above the bustle of everyday life that goes on around them. "We went looking for Thomas in the middle of a riot."

"You did what?" Rosalie gapes at her, and Kitty squeezes her arm.

"It's alright, we got out safely. Mrs Gillan was so cross with both of us, but everyone's put it behind them now. I want to know about your fiancé! You never said in any of your letters Rosalie Berrick!"

"Well…" A blush stains her cheeks, and she glances over her shoulder to check that the men are far enough behind. "You know Greville came through the hospital in that first November…and after that, well, we started corresponding and I guess I fell in love over the letters. After the war, well, I couldn't go back to living in the way I used to. We bumped into each other in Hyde Park at Christmas, quite by accident, I assure you – he's re-opened the bookshop he ran before the war, and well, he proposed. And I said yes."

"Oh Rosalie, I'm so pleased for you," Kitty says. "Have you heard from Flora?"

"Yes, we were going to meet her for dinner tomorrow evening. I think you'll find there's quite a change there."

"How so?"

"She's cut off all her hair, is wearing shorter skirts and marches in political rallies!"

"What?" Kitty covers her mouth with her hand, shocked beyond belief. "Why? What happened to her getting married to her sweetheart?"

"He lost his legs, as you know," Rosalie says, her tone becoming more sombre. "And I think he didn't want to burden her, with looking after a cripple for the rest of her life, because he called it off. Flora was heartbroken, but now she's decided that she doesn't want to marry at all."

"That's a change," Kitty shakes her head slowly. "I can't quite believe it."

"Nor could I. But the changes suit her, they really do. Come on, shall we find a cab – I doubt they'll want to carry the bags all the way to Bloomsbury."

* * *

They meet Flora the next evening at the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street, much to the chagrin of Rosalie's mother who tried to persuade them to go to a tea place on Oxford Street. Rosalie shook her head firmly, however, and Kitty is grateful because anywhere near Oxford Street, she is likely to bump into old acquaintances that she would rather stay buried in the past.

"Flora!" Rosalie waves an elegant hand from where they are sitting near the window as the bell by the door jangles. Kitty bites her lip hard to keep from gaping – Rosalie was right. In the past five months, Flora has undergone such a change that Kitty knows if she passed her in the street, she would not have recognised her.

"Hello," Flora says, her boots clicking on the floor. Her hair, once almost down to her waist, now swings about her chin, and her skirts are easily mid-calf length rather than the ankle-length uniforms they all wore at the hospital. "Kitty, it's so lovely to see you again. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you, Flora. You look…"

"Different?"

"That's one way of putting it," Kitty admits. "I was about to say marvellous, though."

"Thank you." Flora slides gracefully into the empty seat, and almost immediately a waitress appears at her shoulder to take their orders.

They talk for a long time about nothing in particular, catching up, hearing about Flora's latest campaign. "I'm training properly as a nurse, now," she says. "It's very detached from what we did in the war – far less about wounds, and more about illnesses, but it's very interesting. I'm hoping I'll have a job when it's finished though, because lots of women are going into nursing at the moment."

"I'm sure you will," Rosalie says.

"Come what may," Flora shrugs, just the way Kitty used to in order to annoy her mother. "I've still got my political work, though that hardly puts food on the table."

"Are you still living with your parents?" Kitty asks.

"No," Flora gives her a look. "I've got a little room in Whitechapel. Do you know where you and Thomas will live, after the wedding?"

"We only arrived back here yesterday," Kitty laughs. "We haven't got around to it yet, though Miles has offered to help us look, which is very kind of him."

"How is Miles? I've been so busy I've barely had the chance to breathe, let alone see anyone but Rosalie."

"He's well. Elizabeth's back at Covent Garden. He's found a job at the Royal London Hospital as a surgeon," Kitty says, remembering what Thomas told her when he returned from Miles' flat. "Thomas is staying with him until the wedding, and I'm staying with Rosalie."

"Let me know when you set a date." Flora pushes her plate away, and leans back, taking a cigarette out of her battered bag. "Would you like one?"

Rosalie makes a disgusted, unladylike noise and turns away as Kitty accepts the lighted cigarette, taking a long, slow breath.

* * *

When Miles gets home from work several days later, he finds Kitty and Thomas sitting next to each other on his divan, poring over a notebook with their heads bent together like two birds in a nest.

"What's all this?" he asks as he hangs up his coat. "No indecency in my apartment, I hope?"

"We're working out what we need to do," Kitty says absently, tapping the pencil against the paper in a sound like the patter of rain during a storm.

Miles sinks into the armchair opposite them, putting his feet up on the little table between them. Instinctively, Kitty swats at them, and he retracts them quickly. "Tell me, then, and I'll see what else I can come up with."

"Jobs," Thomas says. "I have my interview on Friday at the University College Hospital. But Kitty also needs to find a job."

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to do?" Miles asks her, and she shrugs.

"I've no experience apart from what I did during the war. Before that I was a socialite, which didn't involve much of anything."

"You could train as a proper nurse," Thomas suggests, and Kitty makes a face.

"I would…but I'd really rather like to try my hand at something else. There are so many nurses nowadays – Flora told me about how the courses are positively bursting at the seams with all those who helped during the war, got a taste of independence…"

"Elizabeth's rehearsals should end soon," Miles says, finally. "She might have an idea of what you could do."

Kitty nods, turning her attention back to the list. Dust motes spin in shafts of late afternoon sunlight like tiny rotating planets. "We also need to set up bank accounts, find a flat of our own, buy furniture and start thinking about our wedding."

"Bank accounts are easy. The bank around the corner is very good – it's where both Elizabeth and I have our accounts. We're going to look at flats on Saturday, and I'm sure you can find furniture relatively cheaply from a shop somewhere."

At that moment, there is a knock at the door and Miles heaves himself up from his chair to answer it, returning a few moments later with a blushing, bright-eyed Elizabeth in tow. "Kitty!" she says, happily, leaning over to embrace her. "It's been too long – I'm sorry I haven't seen you before now, I've been at rehearsals all day, every day."

"It's alright," Kitty laughs as Elizabeth greets Thomas, settling herself into Miles' vacated armchair.

"I'm exhausted," she rests her head against her hand for a second.

"How are your rehearsals going? You said in your letters that you're putting on Swan Lake."

"Yes, yes, we are. They're good, but it's the ballet where everyone has to be in line so our ballet mistress is spending hours drilling us into perfection."

"It sounds like the training in the army," Thomas mutters.

"I'm just going to make a cup of tea," Miles calls from the little kitchen. "Would any of you like one?"

"Yes, please," Elizabeth calls. "Thank you!"

After talking for a while over tea, Elizabeth offers to walk with Kitty partway back to Rosalie's parents' house, and as the sun is just setting over the horizon, they depart, arm-in-arm after bidding goodbye to Thomas and Miles.

"Elizabeth," Kitty begins as they round the arched façade of the Opera House, turn down Drury Lane. "I need to start looking for a job, soon, but I've no idea where to begin. Miles said that you might have some ideas."

Elizabeth thinks for a second, her head tilted to one side as though she's listening for ideas from the soft night breeze the swoops around them. "Well…at the Opera House, they are searching for new seamstresses for the upcoming season. I hear that it's reasonably well-paid, and you work with the costumes for the opera and the ballet. Do you know how to sew?"

"Yes, I do," Kitty says. It was something her mother insisted on the governess teaching her, as every lady should be able to embroider. Perversely, Kitty had always enjoyed it, which was unusual, for, as a rule, she never liked the activities her mother prescribed for her. There was something comforting about the needle slipping in and out of the cloth, the colours of the rich, silken threads.

"It is only an idea," Elizabeth says. "Are you sure you don't want to return to nursing? You were a very good nurse…"

"I want a change. I've been shut up by society for almost all of my life, and now I have a chance to spread my wings and try something new. I did enjoy nursing, but I want to try something different as well."

"I understand what you mean," Elizabeth smiles, wide, bright, showing all her teeth. "But ballet has been my life for so long, I don't know what I'd do without it."

* * *

"Are you sure?" Rosalie's mother flutters as the butler brings Kitty's coat. "There are several perfectly nice apartments in this area – you don't have to go as far as St Pancras."

"Yes, perfectly," Kitty reassures her. "My fiancé has a job at the University College Hospital, and it's only a short journey on the underground train to reach where I will be working."

It's a week later, and things are slotting into place like puzzle pieces. The University College Hospital welcomed Thomas with open arms once the head realised he was a very experienced surgeon and an ex-RAMC officer, and she had gone to the Royal Opera House and asked the woman at the front desk.

The wardrobe mistress is a terrifying woman, tall, broad with a deep voice and tightly rolled grey hair, but the years sewing her own clothing as a nurse and the tuition of her governess on the art of embroidery have paid off, and Kitty is now an under-seamstress in the costume department. She starts on Monday; the thought sends excited, nervous chills up her spine. Bank accounts have been opened too, and now all that remains is to find a flat.

"Well, if you're convinced." Rosalie's mother steps back as there is a knock at the door. The butler draws it open, tall and pompous in his black and white, and lets a rather rain-soaked Thomas into the front hallway. "Will you be back for dinnertime?"

"No, I believe not. We're spending it with a friend," Kitty says, taking Thomas' arm. "Hello."

He kisses her cheek chastely, and she smiles. "Shall we go?"

* * *

"I can let you have it for six pounds a month," the landlady says as they look around the little flat. "But you must be married before you live here together."

"That's fine," Kitty says, squeezing Thomas' hand. "I'm staying with friends until the wedding."

"Well, then. I can accept that."

It's a flat Miles found for them in St Pancras, small, but cosy – two bedrooms, one smaller than the other, a little bathroom, a kitchen and sitting room. It's connected to running water as the landlady demonstrated, and the walls have already been painted by the last tenants in shades of cream and blue.

"We'll take it," Thomas says, looking at Kitty, who nods. This is the first time she's ever had a home to call her own – the grand houses of her childhood and first marriage were no more homes than a museum might be, and the canvas tents of the hospital ended up being as insubstantial as the air around them after they were taken down. But this, this is real, solid, and it belongs to her and Thomas, their place, their _home. _

"Come on down to the shop, then, and we'll have a cup of tea whilst you sign the contract. I don't suppose you've got a place in mind for your wedding yet? There's a lovely church just near here that you could try…"

* * *

Monday rolls around with a spring rainstorm, silver flooding into the streets as Kitty ducks into the cover of the Russell Square Underground Station, huddling into her coat. The hem of her dress is already soaking from splashing through the puddles and she's only got half an hour to get to work.

The train arrives in a whistle of air and a rush of workers for the offices, and she manages to find a place, pressed up against the side of the train and holding tightly onto a pole. She's never really taken the Underground before, and it's bizarre – so many people standing so close together in such tense, stifling silence.

Holborn comes and goes in a wave of even more people pushing in, and then the conductor announces Covent Garden. "Excuse me," Kitty says, pushing through the throng of men in pressed suits with briefcases. "Excuse me, please, this is my stop, let me out."

It's a close thing – getting out onto the platform barely a minute before the train doors are slammed, but she's done it, and now there's the prospect of the stairs, climbing up and up and up until finally, when she emerges into the drizzle, her legs are weak and wobbling. She makes her way down towards the flower market, and into the door where she was directed, greeting the porter and trying desperately to remember her way to the costume department.

"Kitty," a voice says behind her, and Kitty starts, turning to see Elizabeth standing behind her and smiling.

"Elizabeth," Kitty clasps her hand. "Could you show me the way to the wardrobe? I'm afraid I'm completely lost."

"Of course," Elizabeth says. Her blonde hair is pulled up off her face, and the tutu of her white practise dress bobs as she moves. "You'll learn your way around pretty quickly."

"I'm sure I will," Kitty says as Elizabeth begins to lead her expertly through the warren of corridors dotted with lamps. The floorboards creak under their feet as they pass what look to be dressing rooms, and practise rooms and finally, they come to a door with the ward 'Wardrobe' on it.

"Here you are. I must go else I'll be late for my rehearsal," Elizabeth kisses Kitty's cheek, and then is gone in a rush of white tulle and ribbons.

Kitty opens the door cautiously and steps inside – the clock against the far wall reads five minutes to eight. She lets out a sigh of relief – not late, after all. The Wardrobe Mistress comes bustling in from behind a rack of white costumes decorated in tiny silver beads. "Ah, you're here, Miss Trevelyan – nice and punctual. Follow me."

She leads Kitty deeper into the Wardrobe, past rails of beautiful gowns and sparkling jewellery for all the performances and stops in front of a table where another woman already sits, sewing together what looks to be a bodice of a tutu from several panels of a white material that shimmers a little under the gas lamps.

"Miss Trevelyan, this is Mrs Anne Winters. She will be your supervisor, so you should ask her any questions that you have. At the moment, we're putting together the costumes for the new production of Swan Lake, and we're behind schedule, so you had better learn fast."

"Of course," Kitty says, and the Wardrobe Mistress turns and disappears back into the warren of costumes.

"Please, sit down," Mrs Winters says. "You can call me Anne, if you wish. Now, I presume you know all of the basic stitches?"

"Yes, I do," Kitty says.

"There are panels there – I'll start off the bodices, and then you can do the middle bit. Simple running stitch up and down the sides will do, and then we'll use the machine to finish them off."

* * *

After two weeks there, Kitty is growing more and more comfortable at making the costumes, and she's been promoted to sewing the little silver beads around the tops, watching from her table as the other seamstresses work on the costumes for different acts, and for the principal dancers. She goes home to Rosalie's parents' house at the end of the day with patterns of beads spinning behind her eyes and the ghost of tulle sliding over her fingers, but it feels wonderful to be making something so beautiful after the years of blood and misery and horror of the war.

The show opens, and rather than the work decreasing with less to do there is more, with repairing tears on the current costumes and beginning to put things together for the operatic production of Le Nozze di Figaro which will follow straight on the heels of the ballet. There's no time to think of anything else, and so Rosalie kindly offers to start looking into furniture for them, as Thomas works full shifts at the hospital.

One evening, when she and Thomas are sitting in Miles' apartment once again and tiredly discussing furniture with the list Rosalie has given them on the table in front of them, Miles bursts in, the door slamming shut behind him.

"How would you like to see your first ballet?" he asks Thomas, waving a sheaf of thick card in their direction.

Thomas blinks at him, and Kitty lifts her head from his shoulder. "What's happening?"

"I, being wonderful, have obtained three tickets to the final performance of Swan Lake," Miles says happily. "Would the two of you like to accompany me, or shall I ask Rosalie and her fiancé, or Flora?"

"Yes," Kitty nods. "I'd like to see what all my hard work and pricked fingers looks like on stage. Tom?"

"Well…" he scratches his head and yawns. "I suppose if you'd like to go…"

* * *

When the actual night rolls around, Thomas is regretting agreeing to go to the ballet. Apparently everyone dresses up – Miles still has evening wear from before the war, Kitty borrows a dress from Rosalie and he is expected to dig out the old suit Miles insisted on buying for him when they were both students. It's too tight across the shoulders, and several buttons are missing, but Kitty sews them back on deftly in a flashing of her silver needle and thread.

The Opera House itself must be the grandest place he's ever stepped into – crystal chandeliers, soft velvet carpets, ushers standing off to the sides in smart uniforms with programmes and smiles plastered onto their faces. With Kitty on his arm – looking utterly beautiful in green and gold – he feels as though he's stepped into one of the fairy stories his sisters would read over and over again when they were children.

"It's nothing like this backstage," Kitty whispers to him conspiratorially as Miles leads them through the throng of people dressed in their finest, rich material whispering around him like judging voices. He's only a surgeon, born in one of the poorest parts of the country – he feels so out of place here, like an imposter, an interloper, not wanted, not welcome.

"We're in the orchestra stalls," Miles says, gesturing to the doors directly opposite them. "Would you like a programme?"

"That would be lovely," Kitty replies, taking the proffered booklet of smart card with gold writing looping across the front as they climb the stairs into the most incredible place Thomas has ever set eyes upon. Red velvet chairs slope away in front of him, and balconies and tiers rise above them like some sort of wedding cake, everything red and gold, grand and rich. "It's gorgeous, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," he says, trying to keep from looking around in awe. He wishes his family could see it.

"Here's our row." Miles gestures to a row midway down the block, and they make their way past several ladies in sumptuous gowns, sit down in the seats that sink to accommodate them.

Kitty hands him the programme. "This is the story," she says, pointing to a block of neatly printed text. "And there's a cast list on the other page."

He reads it slowly as Kitty and Miles begin to discuss something about previous ballets and operas they've seen; the story is something about a girl who has been turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer, and falls in love with a prince who then betrays her. It sounds too melodramatic for his tastes, but seeing Kitty so excited makes happiness flood into his chest like a tide, and he resolves to try and enjoy it for her sake.

The conductor appears and everyone begins to applaud for some reason he can't quite fathom, and then the music starts. It's good, he thinks – very slow and soulful, but something he could picture himself listening to – but then the curtain draws back in ripples of material and the ballet begins.

Several minutes in, he is completely, hopelessly lost, even with the story open in front of him. There are no words – it's all dance and whilst the dancers seem very light on their feet and graceful, he doesn't know if they're doing what they're supposed to be doing. There are several men – in tights, which he doesn't understand – what is wrong with a good pair of trousers? – and a myriad of women balancing on the tips of their toes in brightly coloured dresses that flare out in every direction as they spin in circles.

"There's Elizabeth," Kitty whispers at one point during the first act, nodding towards a blonde woman in a pale green dress, dancing with whom he assumes is the prince mentioned in the story. She looks so different from the person who is in and out of Miles' apartment, or from their time at the hospital – she's elegant and fluent as she turns and lifts her leg, supported by the prince.

There is no break as the first act ends and second act begins, this one is all dark, with all the women from the first act now in the white dresses that he supposes must be the things Kitty refers to as 'tutus' when she's talking about her work. They are perfectly in line as they enter and hold various positions, and he still doesn't know what on earth is going on.

At the end, the whole auditorium is on their feet applauding as the woman in the bigger, more ornate tutu takes her bow with the others all lined up behind her and he is clapping too. The dancing was good, but he doesn't understand how it was supposed to tell a story.

As the curtain falls for the final time and the lights come up in amber glows against the splendour of the auditorium, Kitty turns to him, her dark eyes sparkling. "How did you like it?"

"Well…I didn't quite know what was going on," he confesses, taking her hand as they make their way out into the aisle. "The costumes were very lovely."

"And the dancing?"

"Alright, I suppose."

"Oh Tom." She leans up to kiss his cheek. "It's fine. I saw my first ballet when I was nine and I didn't understand it at all. They use mime – Elizabeth taught me a bit when we were in France – and the best you can do is sit back and admire them."

"I'm going to wait by the stage door for Elizabeth," Miles interrupts. "I'll see the two of you soon."

They say goodbye, and then he's gone through the crowd and they're making their way towards the doors that stand thrown up, the night air swallowing up the chattering audience like some enormous mouth.

Kitty turns to say something to him as they keep walking forwards, but trips on the train of the person in front of her's dress. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Kitty says as the woman turns around, very pale hair falling out of what looks to be a tiara.

"Catherine Trevelyan, what a surprise to see you here." The woman raises an eyebrow coldly, and Kitty takes a faltering step backwards, closer to him. He takes her arm protectively as the woman looks them both up and down.

"Beatrice," Kitty says faintly. "I didn't know you came here anymore."

* * *

Beatrice's icy eyes stare at her, and she feels like a teenager again, young and defiantly naïve and why, tonight of all nights, does her past have to catch up with her? She can feel Thomas' warmth behind her, and takes several breaths, trying to regain her composure. She must not fall apart, she must _not. _

"The reviews for this production were excellent, and you know how I enjoy the ballet." Beatrice gives her a glacial smile. "I would not have thought _you _would show your face here."

"Our friend is a soloist in the ballet," Thomas speaks up behind her, his gentle touch giving her strength to breathe, just breathe, to stand firm in the face of this ghost who has taken flesh and come to haunt her tonight.

Beatrice's eyes snap to Thomas. "And you are?"

"This is Thomas, my fiancé," Kitty murmurs softly. She feels nausea roiling in her stomach like a ship held in the claws of a storm.

"Fiancé? So you're marrying again? I would not have thought you would bother with all of that. She'll move on to the next man as soon as she grows bored."

"I'll thank you not to be rude about my fiancée," Thomas snaps, taking her arm. "Come on, Kitty, we're going."

He pulls her through the last shreds of the crowd, out into the cold air and she takes a deep trembling breath as they begin to walk back towards Bloomsbury. Safe, she's safe. She won't allow Beatrice's taunts to wound her again. "Who was that?" Thomas asks after a while, stopping under the golden veil of a street-lamp.

"That…" Kitty takes another deep breath. "That is…was my sister-in-law. Beatrice Vincent. She is married to my ex-husband's brother."

"Damned woman," Thomas mutters. "How dare she insult you like that?"

"I wounded the family's pride."

"It's not your fault that her brother-in-law is an abusive…" he pauses, turning away for a second. "Are all upper-class people like that?"

"Not all," Kitty says quietly, taking his arm again. "Some are decent."

A slow silence, just the rumble of the night-buses a couple of streets over.

"Thank you for defending me."

"Kitty." He puts a hand on her cheek, gentle, tender. "I'd defend you from the whole world if that is what you needed of me."

* * *

**A/N Important!** Hello, everyone. I'm just letting you know that there are three chapters left of 'Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On,' and then I'll get to work properly on my modern AU story. I hate to say this again, but I'm not going to post the next chapter until I get over 45 reviews...so click that little button! I really would love to hear from you - what do you think about Flora's sudden change? And Tom's first experience with the ballet? (If you want to read his reaction to opera, check out TheCurlymop's story list!). So enjoy! N xx


	8. Weddings

**.Part Eight.**

**Weddings **

The congregation rises in an undulating wave of coloured hats and fascinators as the bride and groom turn back down the aisle, the little bridesmaids throwing rose-petal confetti over them like sweet-scented rain. Thomas offers Kitty his arm, and they follow them to where the doors at the end of the church are being opened, light pouring in and illuminating the happy couple in golden glory as they step out in the normality of a busy London day.

Today is one of those days he doesn't mind wearing a suit, standing up beside his best friend to watch him exchange vows with Elizabeth. It is, undoubtedly, a very proud moment, and he can't wait until it's his turn, until Kitty is the one walking up the aisle towards him, wreathed in a white dress and a beautiful smile.

Not long now. He looks towards her as she watches Elizabeth and Miles stand in front of the photographer, arms around each other and looking like there is no-one else in the world. Everything is slotting into place, now, like an oversized jigsaw puzzle, and he couldn't be happier.

* * *

"So, we have a table, and two chairs. The bed set is arriving this afternoon, so you don't have to trespass on Greville's hospitality any longer. Rosalie's parents are buying us crockery as a wedding gift, and Miles and Elizabeth are doing cutlery," Kitty stands in the middle of their apartment, reading down her list with her hand resting on the mantle-shelf that lies over the fireplace like a cat stretched out in the warmth.

"The divan and the two rocking chairs have been ordered," he contributes, sinking into the seat next to the stove. "We need pots and pans."

"Rosalie's offered to give us that as her present. I told her that we'd get her a tea-set, or something, because Greville already has his house furnished. What else do we need?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. Long shifts at the hospital - operating, seeing patients, sitting in meetings, talking to scientists – drain him like this, and he's really not in the mood. "I don't know," he mutters.

Kitty glares at him. "Come on, Tom. I know you're tired, but we've got to do this now, or the flat won't be ready in time for the wedding."

"Yes, I know that," he snaps. "But we've got everything, haven't we? We don't need fancy cushions or fringed lampshades."

"We're not having either of those things! What's got into you today?" Kitty's voice is rising, and the pain behind his temples is beginning to throb.

"I don't know! I'm tired, stressed because my boss is observing me tomorrow – furniture is the least of my worries!"

"Yes, and it's not like I'm not stressed either!" Kitty throws down the list. "We've got a pile of mending to do, new costumes to make! I'm working overtime every night! But we have to get the flat ready."

"What's the hurry though? We can do it all after the wedding!" He doesn't see Kitty enough as it is, and now, she's starting arguments. Wonderful.

"No, we can't!" Her eyes burn into him, and she turns away as though she can't bear to look at him. "Look, I just want to have our home ready for when we move in together. I'm sorry if I'm making unreasonable demands."

"Kitty." He pulls himself from the chair, crosses the flat and wraps his arms around her carefully, as though she is a fragile china doll that will break into a thousand fragmented pieces if he holds her too tightly. "Let's not argue. Not now."

She rests her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says gently. "Don't be sorry. But it doesn't have to be done right this second. We'll have almost everything, and we can get the other things as and when we need them."

She twists in his arms so she's facing him, her dark hair curling in wisps from her forehead. He brushes them away. "I can't wait until we're married," she says. "At the moment, we're like ships in the night, just passing each other, but never stopping to see each other properly, or talk, or anything."

"Well, then. We're both off this afternoon." He leans down to graze his lips across hers. "How about we go to Regent's Park and have a picnic?"

"Maybe," she laughs, kissing him again and again, her arms winding around his neck and the intoxicating scent of her – soap, velvet and perfume – filling his head until he can barely form a coherent thought.

"Kitty," he murmurs between kisses. "Kitty – we've got to stop or the landlady will throw us out."

She pulls away a little, mischief twinkling in her eyes like stars. "Regent's Park, then."

"Regent's Park," he agrees.

* * *

Rosalie and Greville's wedding is a lovely affair of summer roses and choral anthems at her parents' church in Bloomsbury. Flora – pulled away from her ever-looming work – is the bridesmaid, and several 'friends' from the time before the war populate the back pews, watching with pursed lips and beady eyes.

Kitty couldn't be happier for her friend as she watches the exchange of gold rings, Rosalie smiling as though she will burst at any minute. It's been such a long time since Kitty met that stiff, proper, old-maid-like woman at the beginning of the war – it almost feels like a whole lifetime has passed them by, and they have been reborn into new forms, created from happiness by the skilled hands of a benevolent deity.

As they stand for the final hymn, Kitty looks towards Thomas, shards of bright, jewel-coloured light scattering across the floor and staining his fair hair in all the shades of the rainbow. Only three more weeks, and then it will be their turn. Only three more weeks.

* * *

June is fading slowly towards July in a haze of amber and glorious sunsets over the cityscape of London. Kitty is sitting in the workroom, putting the finishing touches on the gentlemen's costumes for a new production of Les Huguenots, which opens in several nights' time. The workroom is almost deserted, apart from two other girls who are hurriedly sewing beads back into their places on the dress for the lead female role, their quick whispers and the rattle of the beads snaking through the still air.

Casting off her thread, she hangs the costumes back on their rail, and gathers together her bag and hat. "Goodnight!" she calls in the girls' direction, and they glance briefly back towards her.

"Goodnight, Miss Trevelyan," one of them says, the other just nodding her farewell.

The Wardrobe Mistress is humming a song under her breath as she packs away costumes from Le Nozze di Figaro into their boxes by the door, and Kitty pauses, waiting for her to look up. "Yes?" she asks, abruptly.

"Mrs Baines, I was wondering whether I'd be allowed to take a couple of days off next week – I'm getting married next Thursday."

"I can give you two days – the day of your wedding and the day after." She closes the last box, straightening up. "No more, I'm afraid, we're too busy and you'll be needed."

"That's more than enough, thank you," Kitty says.

"What are you wearing for it, then?"

Kitty leans against the worktable nearest the door, more than a little surprised. This is the first time Mrs Baines has disposed herself to be chatty. "I'm making myself a dress."

"If you want to borrow anything, Susan bought the wrong lace for Valentine's gown. It's over there if you want to take it."

"Are you sure? It could be needed for other productions," Kitty protests, but Mrs Baines fixes her with a steel-tipped look.

"If we can't give a valued member of the department some lace for her wedding dress, then what kind of seamstresses are we? Take it. Go on. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you," Kitty says, crossing the room to pick it up, the delicate pattern of flowers and leaves rasping against her fingers. "Thank you very much."

* * *

Pale light slips through the curtains as silently as a dream, sliding under her eyelids and pulling her gently from her slumber. She opens her eyes, staring up at the canopy above the bed in the guest room she's been living in for the past four months. She's getting married today. The thought makes her heart leap into her throat, and joy to swell in her chest. She's getting married.

There's a knock on the door, and she sits up, swings her legs out of bed. "Come in."

It creaks open, and Rosalie's mother appears, already dressed. "Kitty, dear, would you like the maid to bring up some brunch? It's a little late for breakfast, now."

"Yes, please," Kitty says, standing up and reaching for the dressing gown.

Rosalie's mother smiles. "Rosalie, Elizabeth and Flora are waiting downstairs. I'll send them up."

"Thank you."

She disappears, and Kitty sinks back onto the bed. Married. She can't help remembering the time she woke up on the day of her first wedding, the foreboding, the sick feeling twisting in the pit of her stomach, the way the maids pulled at her corset until she'd thought she'd faint. But now is not the time to think of such things, not when she can hear her friends' footsteps pattering along the carpet like an overexcited rainstorm, not when in four hours' time, she will be Mrs Catherine Gillan, and no one will be able to say otherwise.

The door swings open, and the three of them pile into the room, smiling and laughing. "Good morning, Kitty," Flora says cheerfully. "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Kitty admits.

"I was frightened sick on the morning of my wedding," Rosalie says, crossing to pull the curtains back and let light flood into the room in a wave of brightness. "But it goes away the second you begin the walk down the aisle."

"I hope so," Kitty says as Flora takes the tray from the maid at the door, puts it down on the dressing table. "I felt horrible all the way through my first wedding."

"I forget that you've done this before," Elizabeth clucks, fetching the wedding dress that Kitty had made over long nights in the Berricks' drawing room, straining her eyes by the crackling light of the fire. "Miles and I went with Thomas to meet his family off the train at Paddington – his mother and youngest sister will be here later to see you before they go to the church."

"Have they settled in alright?" Kitty yawns and stands to take a pastry from the tray on the dressing table.

"The elder sisters are corralling their children, but they all seem to be alright. The boarding house is quite nice, and everyone seems very excited. Now, come on. We've got to put your hair up."

* * *

Mrs Gillan and Catriona arrive at around midday, and Kitty hears them being ushered along the corridor by one of the maids, Catriona chattering away like a whole chorus of birds. "Mrs and Miss Gillan," the maid says as she opens the door, and Catriona spills in, rushing to give Kitty a hug.

"Is this your old house, Kitty? It's so pretty – it's twice the size of our whole block, and so beautiful – all these carpets and pretty ornaments…"

"It's my parents' house," Rosalie says, stepping forward. "I'm Rosalie Parry, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Moire and Catriona Gillan," Mrs Gillan says as Rosalie kisses her delicately on each cheek. "Please excuse my daughter, she's not entirely used to being someplace so fine."

"It's alright," Rosalie smiles generously.

"Catriona, Mrs Gillan, this is Flora Marshall, and you already know Elizabeth," Kitty says quickly, and the others come forward. Kisses and greetings are exchanged, and then Mrs Gillan puts her hands on Kitty's shoulders.

"I see these girls have done a lovely job in putting up your hair, Kitty. We bought some flowers on the way over as our contribution."

"You didn't have to…"

"Oh, but we did. We could weave a few into your hair, if you'd like," she says.

"That will be the maid with them," Rosalie says, crossing the room with quick, brisk strides to answer the door, taking a cut glass vase from the maid and putting it down on the dressing table, a small explosion of delicate white baby's breath, daisies and yellow flowers that she can't quite name.

"Here." Mrs Gillan selects a few stems, and slides them between the braids that crown the top of Kitty's head. "That looks lovely."

"Thank you," Kitty murmurs.

"Shall we get you into your dress? The wedding starts in a couple of hours – we don't want to keep Tommy waiting!"

* * *

"For God's sake, Tom, stay still!" Miles puts a hand on his shoulder, exasperated. "I've never seen you fidget so much before in all the years we've known each other."

"I'm sorry," he apologises. "I'm just…nervous."

"It's perfectly normal. Just hold it in for two minutes whilst I put in your buttonhole, then you can fidget as much as you'd like."

Outside of the little antechamber, the church is filling up in rustles of Sunday bests and flowers – all of Tom's family are here save his mother and Catriona, who has been asked to be the bridesmaid. He remembers the squeal she made when he gave her Kitty's message, the happiness that lit her up and the way she bounced up and down on the spot.

"All done. Shall we go see all of your guests?" Miles claps him on the shoulder, and Thomas nods once, tensely.

"Alright."

"Look, Tom, stop acting like a brick wall. It'll be fine. Remember what I was like before my wedding, thinking Elizabeth wouldn't show up, thinking that it would all go wrong? It all went wonderfully, and it'll go well today, I promise."

"I'm fine, Miles, I will be. Come on, everyone's waiting."

* * *

Bells ring out from the church tower in peals of joy, and the sun smiles down on them as Kitty gets out of the car with Catriona and Rosalie's mother. For an abstract, fleeting moment, she wonders what it would have been like if her own mother was here to see her daughter down the aisle to a happy marriage, wonders what it would have been like if she had been marrying someone like Tom all those years ago instead of the man who made her life a living hell.

Part of her wishes her family hadn't been so inadequate, part of her wishes that they were here today. She wishes Sylvie could have been the bridesmaid along with Catriona. But they're not, they'll never be, and it doesn't matter. She has a new life now, a free, wonderful life, and today, she's getting married. It's no time to dwell on the past.

The processional doors swing open, the small congregation rises to its feet, the organ begins to play. She takes a deep breath, clutching the flowers in her hands, and starts to walk, her shoes tapping on the flagstoned floor.

She can see Thomas waiting for her at the altar, and her face splits into an uncontrollable smile that beams out of her like starlight. He's smiling too, his eyes wider than she's ever seen them before.

This is life. This is what life is like. There's no room for hurts, or anger, or sadness in the house that is her heart.

Today, now, there's only delight as she reaches him, places her hand in his, as they turn to face the priest. Only delight, and God knows it's what she's been waiting for her whole life.

* * *

People stand around chattering in the church hall across the street in little groups, glasses in their hands catching the light and throwing it into rainbows on the wooden floor. The photographs have been taken, the cake has been cut, the first dance has been danced to the music of claps and cheers. It's a wholly unorthodox wedding, but he doesn't care. He and Kitty are married.

Before, he'd never thought he'd be married – he thought he was destined to live out his life as a bachelor, a surgeon fixed on saving as many lives as he possibly could. He never thought he'd be standing at the altar, watching as his bride made her way down the aisle, a vision in white lace with flowers braided in her hair, he never thought that he'd meet someone as remarkable as Kitty. But she had smashed into his life like a comet falling from the highest heavens, and now, he's happier than he'd ever dreamed of being.

"So, are you going to introduce me to your bride, big brother?"

He looks around to see his second-youngest sister Elspeth hovering at his shoulder with a mischievous smile plastered across her face.

"If you want," he says, leading her over to where Kitty is animatedly conversing with Elizabeth and Colonel Brett who has come down from Cheshire especially for the occasion. "Kitty?"

"Yes?" She turns towards him, her face glowing.

"This is my second-youngest sister, Elspeth. She's a nurse in Southampton."

"How do you do?" Kitty asks, kissing Elspeth's cheek, and the two launch into a discussion about nursing, and something to do with history that he doesn't quite catch. Elizabeth throws him a smile, then turns away and Colonel Brett comes over to him.

"It was very kind of you to invite me to your wedding," he says, and Thomas smiles.

"It's a pleasure to have you here and I know that Kitty feels the same."

They stand together for a few seconds, watching as Flora bustles up to Kitty and whispers something conspiratorially. "It feels like so long ago," Colonel Brett says suddenly, "that we were at war, in all of those damp, freezing tents in France and yet it's barely been a year."

"I know. I suppose the human mind blocks out what it doesn't want to remember. But without the war, I'd never have met you, I wouldn't have met Kitty, we wouldn't be standing here today, so in retrospect, I have a lot to thank it for." He pauses. "I'd never thought I'd hear those words come out of my mouth. How is your son?"

"He's alive," Colonel Brett says. "He'll have a scarred face for life, but he's alive and my wife and I are grateful for small mercies. Losing one child is agony enough. Tell me, how is your work going at the hospital?"

Thomas takes the not-so-subtle subject change and smiles briefly, "Yes, it's good. I'm privileged to work with several very talented pioneering surgeons. There's never a dull moment…" he tails off as a voice – Flora – calls for silence. Kitty is standing by the battered pianoforte in the corner of the room and Rosalie is absently examining her fingernails from her place on the stool.

"Four years ago, when the three of us all young and silly, and believe it or not, Kitty and Thomas weren't even talking – yes, Rosalie, I know you were never silly – we held a concert in the chapel at Field Hospital 25A. And now, I'm pleased to announce that the bride has agreed to reprise our little turn, so," Flora grins, "take it away, Rosalie."

Rosalie begins to play, and a hush falls over the hall so complete as Kitty and Flora begin to sing. He stands and watches, remembering how four years ago, during their little concert, was when he first realised the depth of his feelings for Kitty. He remembers how he'd been so confused, and hurt and he'd come in to the chapel right at the end, and Kitty had been singing so beautifully, with her eyes fixed on him and it felt as though he'd fallen off a cliff.

Now, she watches him, smiling as the two of them launch into the chorus. "There's a long, long trail a-winding, into the land of my dreams, where the nightingales are singing and a white moon beams. There's a long, long night of waiting, until my dreams all come true, 'till the day when I'll be going down that long, long trail with you."

There is rapturous applause when they finish, and the guests part for Kitty as she makes her way towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. When she draws back, there is another round of clapping, and she takes his hand. Evening is closing in, the light coming through the windows is faded, worn and they begin to say their goodbyes.

He stands next to her, his wife, watching as people leave and the sky turns the threadbare blue of a northern sea behind the glass until it's only them left. He wraps his arms around Kitty, holding her close. She leans her head against his shoulder, takes a deep breath, then looks up at him with a cheeky smile.

"Isn't it about time we were getting home, husband?"

He laughs, and takes her hand, and they go out into the street, walking slowly back towards their flat. It's quiet, the air is still, and he's never felt more at peace in his life.

* * *

**A/N Important! **Here's the next chapter! Just a little note to say I'm on work experience all next week - I will try and write this, but if there's no time, I'll post a oneshot that I've already written. Thank you to my guest reviewers - I hope that there's enough Kitmas fluff in this chapter for you! In addition, I'll post on Tumblr what I think Kitty's dress looks like, so have a look on my blog (link on my profile) if you'd like to see! I think that's all, so enjoy! I would really love to hear from you (and hit the 50+ mark hint hint!). :) N xxx


	9. Sylvie

**.Part Nine.**

**Sylvie**

Winter is drawing on again in patterns of frost drawn against the windowpanes and ever-encroaching nights. It's been a year since the end of the war, and Kitty can hardly believe it as she stands over the stove, a blanket wrapped over her nightdress and the kettle bubbling away cheerfully to itself.

Suddenly, nausea rises in her throat and she curses, makes a dash for the bathroom. This illness has been with her for the past few days, and whilst she's still managing to drag herself to work, it's draining to have to rush to the nearest sink every few hours to throw up. It's horrible, and there's a roaring in her ears – she can feel Thomas holding back her hair and murmuring quiet nothings as she's sick again and again.

When it's all finished, she straightens up, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Thomas wraps an arm around her waist and helps her back into the kitchen, into a chair at the table, bringing her a glass of water. "I don't think you should go into work today," he says worriedly, resting his hand against her forehead as though she's got a fever. "It'll get better sooner if you stay here and rest."

"I would argue, but I feel too wretched," Kitty coughs, putting her head down on the table.

"If I go now, I can get down to Covent Garden to tell them that you're ill before my shift starts," He bends to kiss the top of her tangled hair. "Stay in bed, get some rest. Rosalie or Flora might call."

"Alright," she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Have a good day at work."

"Thank you, darling. Keep drinking fluids, try something plain…"

"Tom, I know how to take care of sick bugs. Sylvie had them all the time."

"I know, I know. I worry."

She flaps her hands at him gently. "Go on. You'll be late."

He kisses her cheek, and then crosses to the door. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Tom. Go."

* * *

At about three o'clock, a knock comes at the door and Kitty heaves herself up from the bed to go and answer it. She's spent the entire day drifting lazily in and out of sleep, but it hasn't seemed to help the nausea that roils in her stomach like waves rolling and plunging in the thrall of a violent storm.

"Hello, Kitty," Rosalie says as Kitty pulls the door ajar.

"Rosalie," Kitty yawns. "Come in, come in. I'm sorry, I'm not dressed."

"It's fine, you're ill."

"How do you know that?"

"Elizabeth," Rosalie says sagely.

"Ah," Kitty sinks down onto one of the rocking chairs. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'll make it. Would you like anything?"

"Just a glass of water, thank you."

As Rosalie goes into the kitchen and begins to potter around, Kitty lets her head drop against the side of the armchair. She hates being ill – feeling worthless, horrid, tired, not being able to go about her day-to-day life.

Rosalie appears a few minutes later with steam curling off the surface of her tea and a glass of water which she gives to Kitty. She settles herself, ladylike despite the pregnant rise of her stomach, on the divan. "How long have you been sick?" she asks.

"A few days. It came on very suddenly, and I don't know why," Kitty says petulantly. Her eyes feel sticky with sleep.

Rosalie thinks for a second, and something dawns on her face. She leans forward.. "Could it be that you're expecting the patter of little feet in the near future?" she suggests tentatively. "I just remember having morning sickness a few months ago, though…"

Rosalie's words punch into Kitty's head like a bullet and she draws herself upright. "I'm such a fool," she says, irritated. "I felt like this when I was pregnant with Sylvie, I know I did because the only person I got sympathy from was my lady's maid."

"When did…you know…it last come?" Rosalie's cheeks seem to be on fire with embarrassment.

"I can't remember. Quite a time ago, I think – oh, I am so _stupid _sometimes." Kitty can't help but start to smile as it dawns on her. Pregnant. Pregnant. She's going to have a baby, going to have Tom's _baby_. She feels lightheaded, the world spinning around her in a joyful dance.

"I suppose a congratulations is in order," Rosalie says. "I'm so pleased for you."

"Thank you," Kitty says, reaching out to embrace her friend. "Thank you."

* * *

When Thomas gets home that evening, she is dressed and dinner is cooking away on the stove, a stew bubbling happily to itself and bread from the bakery sitting on the table. As he comes into the kitchen, she crosses to him and wraps her arms tightly around his neck, kissing him like she's drowning and he's the air that brushes the surface of the water with a lover's caress.

When she finally steps away, her fingers twined through his, he's smiling. "You're evidently feeling better."

"I feel wonderful," she announces, her news heavy with anticipation on her lips.

"That's good. Did you rest today?"

"Yes, I did. Did you have a good day at work?"

"Yes." He pulls her into his arms again, and she rests her head against his shoulder, revelling in the warmth that sings through her veins at his very touch. "Very good, thank you. Had an interesting talk with Dr Hayes on a new venture into a different form of anaesthesia."

"I'm glad," she says, the words bursting from her mouth. "I've got news for you."

"Mm-hmm," he murmurs into her hair.

"I'm pregnant."

"What?" His voice is so shocked that Kitty begins to laugh, the sound echoing like the peal of church bells.

"That's why I've been ill, Tom. It's morning sickness. Rosalie helped me figure it out."

"You're…you're pregnant."

"Yes, I know."

"You're pregnant. We're going to have a baby." He shakes his head disbelievingly. "Kitty, this is incredible news!"

Her smile stretches as wide as Europe, cracking her face into pieces. "Are you pleased?"

"Pleased doesn't even begin to describe it! We're going to have a baby!" His eyes shine like a summer's day, stunned and delighted, and then he picks her up and spins her around, holding her close and kissing her until she swears she's going to float away like a fluffy cloud in one of the illuminated storybooks she used to own as a child.

There is a hiss from the stove, and Kitty disentangles herself to go and stir the stew. She hears Thomas pull out one of chairs and sink into it, hears his amazed murmur. "A baby. I'm going to be a father."

* * *

How is it that time flies by so quickly? In the blink of an eye, winter has turned back over into spring, and life is spurting from the ground that, only a few weeks ago, was frozen solid by the winter's rage. Kitty is ambling in Regent's Park after her shift ends, eating up the time by enjoying the weak, chilly spring sunshine that washes everything in sallow light. She's meeting Thomas here for a walk before they go back to the flat – whilst other women crave different foods during their pregnancy (and she admits, she's had that too), her body seems to want the wind tangling through her hair and the sun on her face.

Suddenly, a voice pipes up behind her. "Excuse me, Missus, can you help me?"

Kitty turns to see a girl of about eleven standing behind her in a dress that, whilst fine, shows off a good two inches of the girl's wrists. Her dark hair defies its braids, and her dark eyes are fixed on Kitty's face.

Recognition hits Kitty like an explosion, and she holds back a choking cry. Six years and a war have separated them, but she would know her daughter _anywhere._

"Sylvie," she whispers, her voice inexplicably hoarse. "Sylvie."

"How do you know my name?" the girl demands.

Kitty slowly lowers herself to her knees in front of her daughter. "Sylvie, don't you recognise me?"

Sylvie shakes her head, but doubt is clouding over in her eyes and pain is tugging at Kitty's heartstrings so hard that tears spring to her eyes. How can she prove to her daughter that she's here, how can she get her to understand? It hits her suddenly, and the words spill out of Kitty's mouth so fast that she barely understands what she says.

"Do you still want a dragon for Christmas?"

"Mummy?"

There are tears in Sylvie's eyes too, and the dam breaks. She flings herself forward into Kitty's waiting arms, and finally they're together again, finally she's embracing her daughter, holding her like she should have been able to for the past six years, and please-don't-let-this-all-be-a-dream.

"Mummy, where have you been?" Sylvie is sobbing uncontrollably into the shoulder of Kitty's dress, and Kitty is rocking her back and forth, inhaling the smell of soap and honey that pours off Sylvie's hair, not caring that they're making a spectacle for the hungry eyes of avid passers-by.

"Your father made me go away, oh my darling, I'm so sorry." Kitty's words are jumbled and she can't seem to make them come out coherently. Her daughter, her beautiful, precious daughter is here in her arms, and God, how long has she waited for this day! "I wouldn't have left you for the world, but he wouldn't let me see you, oh my darling."

"Promise that you'll never go away again?" Sylvie asks, sounding so young that pain rakes its claws across Kitty's heart.

"I promise," she soothes, kissing her daughter's forehead again. "I promise."

* * *

They go the bench where Kitty was to meet Thomas, and Sylvie curls up into her side with Kitty's arms tight around her.

"Father told me you were dead," Sylvie says after a long while. "But there was no grave to visit, unlike when Grandmother died, and I heard the maids talking about how you were in France. Why were you in France?"

"I was a nurse, during the war," Kitty tells her, brushing a stray curl out of Sylvie's eyes. "I looked after the soldiers, and made them well again."

"But why did you have to go?"

"You know when I last took you to the seaside, and we stayed with my friend, James?"

"Yes," Sylvie rests her head against Kitty's shoulder.

Kitty takes a deep breath, wondering if Sylvie's old enough to hear this, wondering whether it would be right to burden her with an adult's problems. But her daughter is looking at her with midnight-coloured eyes, a mirror of her own, and Kitty knows that she of all people deserves an explanation. "I was running away from your Father. He wasn't very nice to me, and I had to get away, but James sent us back and your Father divorced me, and said I was never allowed to see you again."

"Did you miss me?"

"Sylvie, you were in my thoughts every single day. I love you more than my own life, and I want more than anything to be your mother in deed as well as in word."

They lapse into silence for a few seconds, then Sylvie speaks again. "Father got married to Miss Leyland. She's like a horse and I don't like her."

"Is she nice to you?"

"No. She doesn't like to see me. I have to stay in my room with my governess, but I don't like her either, so I ran away. Mummy, can I stay with you?"

"I want you to so much, but we're going to have to talk to your father about it." The prospect of facing Elliott again sends shivers crawling up Kitty's spine, but for the girl cradled in her arms, she knows she'll do anything.

"Did you get married again?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I did."

"What's your husband like?" Sylvie has brightened up. "Is he nice?"

"Yes, he is," Kitty says, smoothing another kiss onto Sylvie's hair. The baby in her stomach kicks, and then a shadow falls across them and Thomas is there, confusion etched in every line of his expression.

"Tom," she says, reaching out a hand to him. "Tom, this…this is Sylvie."

Surprise dashes fleet-footed across his face, and then he smiles, kneeling down so that he's on a level with Sylvie. She ducks behind Kitty's shoulder, suddenly shy. "Sylvie, this is my husband, Tom."

"Your mother is always talking about you, and it's wonderful to finally meet you."

Sylvie re-emerges, looks from Kitty to Thomas and back again. "It's nice to meet you too," she says politely, then the child that she used to be appears from behind the manners and she wriggles. "Can I come home with you?"

"Yes," Kitty tells her, without a second thought. "Yes, of course you can."

* * *

They are just going out of the park when there is a shout from along the pavement, and a woman dressed in the black of a governess storms up to them. "Sylvia Catherine Vincent, where in God's name have you been?"

Sylvie's bottom lip trembles and she clutches onto Kitty's hand tightly.

"I've been looking for you for hours you little minx! And you've been disturbing these people – I'm very sorry for her, Sir, Madam, one would think she's been raised by wildcats! Come along."

"Mummy," Sylvie whispers. The governess looks likely to fly at Sylvie and shake her. "Don't make me go."

"What nonsense is this?"

"I'm Catherine Gillan, Sylvie's mother," Kitty stares down the governess.

"But," the governess protests. "Miss Vincent's mother died five years ago."

"She didn't die," Thomas says, anger boiling in every word. "What kind of madness…"

"Thomas, I'll tell you later," Kitty lays her free hand on his arm.

"Nevertheless, Miss Vincent has got to come home. Her stepmother and father are waiting for her."

"Sylvie, darling," Kitty kneels before her. "I promise I'll come to the house tomorrow and pick you up after work, yes? But you have to go with your governess now."

A little reassured, Sylvie nods, and Kitty quickly kisses her forehead. "I love you, remember that."

"I love you too, Mummy."

As Sylvie is dragged off none-too-gently by the governess, Kitty blinks back tears and Thomas puts a comforting arm about her shoulders. "We'll get her back," he vows. "I promise, Kitty, we'll get her back."

* * *

"I'm not letting you go there alone," he says heatedly. "What kind of husband would I be to let my pregnant wife go and face a man who abused her for six years all on her own?"

"Tom, I have to do it!"

"I know you have to do it, I'm not debating that. God, Kitty, I wish you wouldn't be so stubborn."

Kitty turns, rests a hand on her belly. The baby kicks again, as if it's reminding her that it's there. "I just…I'm just scared that you'll hit him. That he'll call the police, and you'll go to prison, and Tom, I'm not losing you, not after all we've been through…"

"Kitty." He wraps his arms around her. "Kitty, I won't. No matter how much I want to, I won't."

* * *

The next day, he picks her up from work where she's been sitting and sewing sequins onto dresses for Les Sylphides, trying desperately not to think of her daughter, and they get the Piccadilly Line to Hyde Park Corner.

Thomas' face is stony, set, but he can't help be awed at the white marble façades of the houses that line the streets that Kitty unerringly leads him down, windows staring with accusing eyes, wrought iron balconies jutting out like defiant chins. She stops, suddenly, outside a house on the end of a street named Wilton Crescent. She's shaking, and he puts an arm around her waist.

"This…this is it," she says, slowly, and he can hear the utter, outright terror laced through the forced calm of her tone.

"Shall we get it over and done with, then?"

"Yes." Kitty gives him a watery smile, and they take the steps that rise reprovingly above them, as though they are telling them off for daring to climb so high.

He raps the knocker, and it is drawn open by a sombre faced, stick thin butler in a perfectly polished livery. Something flickers across his face for an instant, but he conceals it almost immediately. "We're here to see Mr Vincent, Coleman," Kitty says.

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Dr and Mrs Gillan."

"Have you an appointment?"

"No, but it is a matter of importance."

"He's in his study. Follow me."

Kitty takes Thomas' hand tightly, winds her fingers through his as though she's trying to take some of his strength as they step into the entrance hall. Carpets on the floor, paintings hanging from the walls with their disinterested eyes skimming over the two of them, a polished wooden sideboard.

He leads them to a door that stands slightly ajar, knocking quietly. "Yes, what is it?" a voice calls from inside, a very controlled voice that makes anger coil in the base of his stomach like a serpent waking from a century's hibernation. Beside him, Kitty has gone white.

"A Dr and Mrs Gillan to see you, sir."

"Send them in."

The butler opens the door, and they step inside. A man sits, perfectly, unnaturally upright in a chair behind a desk laden with papers. His cruel, colourless eyes rake across the two of them, and an almost reptilian smile spreads across his face. He rises, and Kitty begins to crush Thomas' hand. He can feel her trembling.

"Catherine, what a pleasant surprise," he drawls.

"Elliott," she says, shortly.

"Who is this?"

"This is my husband."

"Your husband? So you married her, then? My condolences – she's far more trouble than she's worth." This last is addressed to Thomas, and he takes a deep breath, trying to keep the fury that burns on his tongue at bay.

"We've come for Sylvie," Kitty says.

"Ah, yes, my runaway daughter. What makes you think that I'd be willing to relent, exactly?"

"She's not happy here. You have a new wife, you have other children. You don't need her."

"You cannot offer her a decent home, connections, money."

"She'll be loved. She'll be taken care of. She won't be locked in a room with her governess, wearing clothes that are too small for her."

"You are an adulteress, Catherine. You gave up your rights to the child the day you ran away to that man."

Kitty is shaking harder than ever now, and Thomas wraps an arm around her shoulders. "You are an abusive _git_," he growls. "Don't think I don't know what you did to Kitty during your marriage to her."

"How terrifying, the protective husband." Elliott Vincent chuckles coldly.

"Tom," Kitty murmurs.

He ignores her. "It would be so easy to go to the press with reports of it. You'd call it your word over hers, but I've heard scandals can erupt ever so easily."

Elliott Vincent raises an eyebrow, but behind the façade, the cogs are turning. "Are you threatening me?"

"Call it what you will. I see it as vengeance for the way you treated my wife."

"What do you want? Money?"

"We want custody of Sylvie."

"No."

"The Daily Express offices are only a short walk from where I work. Do you really want to have your reputation ruined?"

"Take the girl," Elliott Vincent steps back, freezing, furious defeat burning out of his eyes. "Take her, and never darken my door again."

"Gladly," Thomas retorts. "Come on, Kitty."

He follows them out, barks a quick order at the butler and retreats, the door slamming shut behind him. Kitty looks at him, amazement shining out of her eyes and warming his heart. "Did you truly just do that?"

"Yes," he says, ducking his head to steal a quick kiss. "I did."

"You're the most wonderful person I know." She puts a hand against his cheek. The baby kicks again. "And I think our little one agrees."

It feels so good to lay to rest her ghosts in the very tomb in which they first came, and she raises up on her tiptoes and kisses him, not caring that this is the house in which she first learnt what fear was, not caring that it is not proper to kiss one's husband in someone else's house.

The butler clears his throat behind them, and then a whirlwind of blue hair ribbons and dark curls launches itself into Kitty's arms. "Come on, darling," she says. "We're going home."

* * *

April, May and June dissolve into each other, and Kitty knows that this is what heaven is like. She is blessed, to have her daughter back, to have her husband, to have the baby growing in her stomach, stronger and bigger every day. Sylvie delights in sitting down with her hands pressed to Kitty's belly, waiting for the baby to kick, or coming up with lists of names that she unsubtly leaves lying around on the table.

At first, she didn't quite know how to act around Thomas, seeing as her own father had never showed much interest in her except to tell her off, but now, she is thawing the way the sea-ice cracks and splits at the poles – slowly, then all at once. She holds his hand as well as Kitty's when they go for walks, and insists that he read to her every night from the books that she brought with her from the old life.

In April, Rosalie gave birth to her baby – a little girl whom they've named Ida – and whilst Kitty is still able to work, Sylvie spends the daylight hours at Rosalie's house, helping her to look after the baby who is already showing signs of inheriting Rosalie's gloriously red hair.

July dawns in stifling heat and Flora – not at work, for once – is sitting at the kitchen table with Sylvie, teaching her about politics and women's suffrage, and Kitty is lying on the divan, fanning herself with a piece of paper. They have a cot, and Sylvie has been making a mobile to hang over it, and clothes have been pouring in from all their various friends. Now all they're waiting for is the arrival of the baby.

It's too hot. "Do you want a glass of water?" Kitty calls, heaving herself to her feet. She feels so ungainly nowadays, fat and ugly, though Thomas assures her that she's still and will always be beautiful to him, and her back and sides ache ferociously. Faint contractions come and go, but she knows that these aren't the real thing – the baby isn't due for another two weeks.

"Yes please, Mummy," Sylvie says, and Kitty goes into the kitchen, takes a glass from the cupboard, leaning over to fill it up. She freezes as another pain grips her, this one stronger than the ones she's accustomed to, and suddenly something like water gushes from between her legs, staining her skirt.

"Flora…"

"Yes?"

"Flora, the baby's coming." Kitty tries to keep her voice calm, but there's a distinct wobble in it. She remembers giving birth to Sylvie all those years ago when she was nineteen years old, terrified and alone save for the midwife and her lady's maid. It was hell.

"It's alright, it's alright," Flora pulls on her nurse persona like one might pull on a coat. "Come on, we'll get you into bed. Sylvie, darling, can you boil some water?"

"Will Mummy be alright?"

"Yes, of course she will. Don't you worry."

* * *

He comes home to screams that permeate through the door and cause fear to curdle in his stomach. Sylvie is curled up on the divan, and when he steps into the sitting room she runs to him, and he scoops her up into his arms.

"Mummy's having the baby." Her upturned face is pale, and there are tear-tracks running down her cheeks. "She hasn't stopped screaming for ages, and Flora won't let me in."

At that moment, Flora appears from the bedroom, her auburn hair sticking up wildly this way and that. "What's happening?" he asks. "How is she?"

"She's doing well. The midwife's here and Rosalie, too."

"Can I see her?"

"The birthing room's no place for a man," Flora says, so calm that he wants to shake her. "You're a doctor, you should know that."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Look after Sylvie." With that, she turns and disappears back, finality ringing through the air as the door shuts behind her.

He sits down on the divan, holds Sylvie close. "It's alright," he says, choking his worry down. "It's alright. Your mother is going to be absolutely fine."

* * *

Five hours later, after making Sylvie eat something and telling her stories to distract her from the awful sounds coming from the bedroom, the hoarse, gasping screams, the noise stops, abruptly, and there is the wail of a baby, rising and falling. Sylvie, cried out and exhausted, is fast asleep in his arms, and he gently lays her down, standing up and padding to the door.

As he's about to knock, the door swings open and Rosalie is standing there, a smile opening on her face. "Would you like to meet your daughter?" she asks quietly.

A daughter. He feels almost delirious. A daughter, he has a daughter. He pushes past Rosalie, and there is Kitty, propped up against the pillows in their big bed and cradling a bundle of blankets in her arms like it is the most precious thing in the world. She looks up as he approaches. "Hello," she says, her voice rasping against the air as though it's made of sandpaper.

There is a lump in his throat as he sits on the edge of the bed next to her, looks down into the wide-awake, blue as a forget-me-not eyes that blink up at him, snatching his heart as quickly and surely as a fish caught in a net. "She's beautiful," he whispers, reaching down to stroke the back of his finger against her soft little forehead. "She looks just like you, Kitty."

"She has your eyes," Kitty rests her head against his shoulder, and he turns to press his lips against her temple. "Where's Sylvie?"

"Asleep in the sitting room."

"How about you take the baby to see Sylvie?" Rosalie suggests. "Kitty needs to sleep."

He nods, and takes his daughter carefully into his arms, remembering how it felt to hold his siblings like this when they were born, rocking her back and forth. She yawns sleepily, and he marvels at her tiny little starfish hands that wave like seaweed tangled in the ocean currents as he carries her out into the sitting room, lowering himself onto the end of the divan.

"Sylvie?" he says. "Sylvie, wake up."

Her eyelids flutter and she sits up, stretching her arms.

"Sylvie," he says. "Would you like to hold your sister?"

Her eyes widen, and she crawls over to look down into the baby's face, and there, with the rays of sunlight catching on the windowpanes, the warmth of his step-daughter on one side, and the new baby fast asleep in his arms, he knows that he's found the life that somewhere, someone always meant him to have.

* * *

**A/N **Only the epilogue to go, people! This is insane! I can't believe its almost done! If you could get me to 60 reviews this chapter, I promise I'll post the epilogue no later than Thursday morning. How's that for a deal? What do you think of the Kitmas baby, and Kitty and Sylvie's reunion? Or the re-entrance of the slimy twit? I'd love love _love _to hear from you, so click that little button! N xxx


	10. Epilogue

**.Epilogue.**

**Seven Years Later**

The whisper of the morning takes hold of her and pulls her out of her dreams so hard that her head spins as her eyes flutter open. Sunlight falls through the checked curtains, illuminating her room – the neat writing desk, the bookshelves groaning under all of her favourite books – her beautiful, old copies of Austen's novels – Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park – all jumbled together with the works of the Brontës, Gaskell, Hugo and Collins.

There is murmuring outside her door, and then it bangs open loudly. "Happy Birthday Sylvie!" the voice of her seven-year-old sister, Audrey, screeches and then there is a weight on her legs. "Are you still asleep?"

Audrey's face appears above her own, and Sylvie wraps her arms around her little sister, pulling her down in a squeal of shock and beginning to tickle her.

"Stop it, stop it!" Audrey giggles, and Sylvie pushes herself upright. Audrey crawls into her lap.

"It's your birthday today."

"I know," Sylvie says.

"Are you happy?"

"Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," Audrey shrugs. "Are you coming into the sitting room? Mummy and Papa have presents for you."

"Well, I can't get up unless you move, little imp."

Audrey slides off her, and Sylvie slowly swings her legs out of bed, taking her wrap from the back of the door and padding out into the landing. The floorboards squeak like mice scampering after cheese, and the stairs groan as they take her weight. Audrey pelts down the stairs behind her, more excited than even Sylvie is.

"Come on, come on, come on!" she babbles, running ahead of Sylvie into the sitting room, bashing the door with as much strength as her little arms can manage.

"She's coming!" Sylvie hears her say, and then the voice of her step-father, Thomas.

"Audrey Gillan, what have we said about slamming doors?"

"Sorry, Papa."

Sylvie holds back a torrent of silent laughter as Audrey begins to talk again – she really is a little bundle of energy, rather like a very young puppy. She can't keep still for a single moment; she always has to be on the move – either that, or she sits on your lap, chattering away like a brightly coloured, exotic parrot.

Composing herself, she walks through the door to see her whole family are arrayed about the room – Thomas lounging in the armchair with two-year old Henry dozing in his arms, and her elegant mother sitting perfectly upright next to Audrey – still talking – and four-year-old Jack kicking his feet boredly.

"Happy Birthday," her mother says, and Sylvie crosses the room to give her a hug. "I can't believe you're eighteen already – where have all the years gone?"

"Don't go getting nostalgic, Mama," Sylvie teases, gently pushing Audrey to one side so she can sit down. Jack climbs into her lap, and she wraps her arms around his small, warm body, resting her chin on top of his unruly mop of fair hair.

"You'll feel the same way when you have children," Kitty warns.

"Alright, alright, stop arguing." Thomas holds up a hand as if to freeze them in their tracks.

"We're not arguing, we're discussing," Sylvie points out. "No raised voices, no slamming doors."

"Unlike the rest of your teenage years," Thomas mutters good-naturedly. "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you."

"Sylvie, Sylvie, open your presents!" Audrey says.

"You'll have to fetch them for me monkey, unless Jack wants to get off my lap."

"Alright." Audrey hops off the divan and crawls towards the fireplace where the gifts are stacked up like a castle, towers and battlements of wrapping paper and ribbon, card drawbridges crossing the stone moat of the fire-guard. "This one is from me."

"Lovely," Sylvie says, exchanging a glance with her mother as Audrey puts a wonkily wrapped package into her hands. "Thank you, Audrey."

As she unwraps it with Audrey hovering nearby like a bird suspended in the air, a hopeful expression plastered across her face, she knows that the nightmares she sometimes has about being back with her old family have been completely banished, because love always chases away the darkness.

Helios with his bright light has come into her life, and she prays that he'll never leave.

* * *

Kitty sits on the picnic blanket with Elizabeth and Rosalie, watching as Flora and their various assorted husbands and children play cricket with lots of arm-waving and shouting, wildly gesticulating at Flora who is acting the part of referee. As Miles is bowled out for the second time in a row by Thomas, Elizabeth turns to Kitty.

"She's really grown up into a beautiful young woman, hasn't she?" she says.

"I know. I mentioned something about young men appearing at the street corners, and Thomas immediately said that they'd have to get past him first."

Rosalie laughs. "Nothing like an overprotective father, is there? Luckily we've got years until Ida starts becoming interested in boys."

"And us with Ruby or Annie," Elizabeth smiles, looking to where her three-year-old twins play in the soft, bright grass with Henry, completely uninterested in the ball soaring over their heads and the shrieks of the older children.

"Sylvie's promised me she's going to be sensible," Kitty sighs, leaning back and stretching her arms. "No taking after Flora with her smoking and dancing night after night."

"God forbid any of them take after Flora," Elizabeth says fondly.

"How are the preparations for your farewell performance going?" Rosalie asks Elizabeth, absently tucking a strand of flaming hair behind her ear.

"Well, yes. I'm very sad to say goodbye, of course, but the injuries are making it harder and harder, and Miles is at work and I can't keep leaving the girls all the time. They've decided it's to be Giselle, which I'm pleased about."

"It's one of your favourites, isn't it?" Kitty inquires absently, leaning over to pick daisies that smile shyly up at them from between the towering green stalks of the grass.

"Yes, it is. And then they've offered me a teaching position, so I get to scare all the little ones into turning out and pointing their toes."

"You couldn't scare anyone," Kitty scoffs. "You're too nice."

"I think you'll find I can be pretty scary when I'm angry," Elizabeth counters, lying back on the rug.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Alright, then."

They sit in silence for a little while, watching Sylvie and Ida run back and forth between the sticks they've set up as wickets as the fielders cheer them on. The sun shines, the birds sing, their melodies pouring over park like a golden waterfall, and the leaves whisper secrets to the wind.

Life takes you on many twists and turns, but now, Kitty knows her life is gloriously straight, a yellow brick road that's paved with happy memories and thoughts of a peaceful future.

As Thomas comes up to them, sitting down heavily next to her, she reaches out and winds her fingers through his, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

"I'm exhausted," he says. "Where do they get all their energy from?"

"You're the doctor, you tell me," Kitty tells him, and he laughs, turning his face towards hers, his blue eyes glinting like the surface of the sea on a calm day. He's the one who pulled her headlong out of the darkness, set her gently in the light, and as she tilts her head to brush her lips across his, she knows that without him, she'd be nowhere, nothing, no-one.

Because of him, she has so much.

Other people crave a life like this, and once upon a time, being loved, having friends, having a proper family was more than she'd ever believed she was worthy of. But now she knows that dreams have an uncanny habit of coming true.

Life is short, and for some, dreams are all they possess.

She doesn't need dreams, delusions, fantasies. Not now. Not when she has everything she's ever wanted right between her hands.

Some people aren't so lucky, and as Thomas' arms wind round her, she knows that she is blessed.

* * *

**A/N Important! **Okay, guys, I cannot believe I have just finished this. Wow! This is really exciting. I know I haven't got up to sixty reviews, but oh well - I would adore to get to above sixty on this chapter. Please? For me? Because it's finished, I'd love to hear from _everyone _who has been following it, to tell me what they think of the ending!

Okay, so my next project is my modern AU, which I can officially announce is called; _The Siren's Call. _It will start posting sometime next week, and I have a couple of oneshots that might make an appearance in between times. So, until then, goodbye! N xxxx


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